The Gut's alleys coiled like a serpent's spine, thorns tearing stone, their shadows no longer hiding them—they followed.
Teon Grivalt led the squad through a jagged seam, his Rot Mark searing under his leathers, a claw digging deeper. The scroll in his belt hummed, a low dirge, pulling at his blood. Mayla's lullaby clawed his mind:
The rot that remembers…
Blood trails snaked across the frost, their edges thorned, like the scar his boyhood left carved in the snow—always tightening, never healed. Crows perched on shattered gables, one with a third eye glinting, its thorned beak open, as if it sang:
Forget their names.
Sura Lenhart stumbled behind, her satchel dragging, the music box's thorns biting her hip. Her spiral scar—visible only to Teon—pulsed, blood seeping through her rag, curling into a noose on the frost. Her eyes were wild, her breaths ragged, the dirge pulling her.
Brik Roan followed, his iron bat limp, the Iron Dog brand on his glove pulsing, forge-born, silent.
Lune Roan kept pace, her silver eye cutting the dark, her blind one hidden, her knife trembling.
Doma Velk trailed, his cane sinking into frost, his red-ringed eyes flickering like a dying torch, muttering,
"The noose remembers what we don't."
They slipped into a sunken alley, its walls scratched with thorned wounds, not spirals but close. Teon's mark burned, the scroll's dirge a blade in his skull. He stopped, his knife drawn, sap and blood flecked on its edge.
"We split up,"
he said, voice raw, a reckless choice igniting.
"Sura, with me. Brik, Lune, Doma—take the west cut."
His mark flared, Mayla's whisper faint: …name the world lost. He wanted to scream, to tear the mark from his back, but he chose—wrong or not, he decided. The squad's trust was frayed, their scars—Teon's mark, Sura's sigil, Brik and Lune's pits, Doma's burns—screaming louder than the Gut's silence.
Doma's eyes flickered, his voice breaking, not cold but raw.
"You're splitting us to die,"
he said, his cane trembling, his Clergy scars burning in his silence—texts burned, lives lost.
"I read their books, Teon. I burned for it. You're leading us to ash."
His red-ringed eyes dimmed, a dying torch, his fear bared, a crack in his wisdom.
Brik stood still, his bat heavy, his voice a whisper, not a growl.
"You're breaking us, Teon."
His brand pulsed, forge-born, quiet, a memory of screams in the dark. Lune's silver eye wavered, her knife lowering, her pit brands itching, chains meant to be spirals.
"I was nine,"
she said, voice soft, cracking.
"They carved chains into me until I begged for fire. I swore I'd never doubt my own blood."
Her blind eye fixed on Teon, doubting now.
"Why are you choosing this?"
Sura's scar stilled, her blood noose fading on the frost, the music box quiet. She leaned against Teon, her hand brushing his, a fleeting closeness, as if the dirge had paused.
"It's stopped,"
she whispered, eyes meeting his, a fragile calm.
"Maybe it's over."
The squad exhaled, their scars silent, the frost steaming like breath held too long.
A patrolman screamed,
"Found them!"
Lanterns flared, boots pounding. Sura's scar burned bright red, blood seeping faster, the noose tightening again.
The music box hummed:
Crows forget their wings.
Its thorns drew blood not just from her flesh, but from the air itself—a price paid in echoes. "It's not over," she said, voice trembling, a tear like blood on snow.
"It's calling us."
Teon's mark roared, a vision flashing—snow, Mayla's lullaby, Why does it hurt? The scroll's dirge was a fire in his veins, urging him to open it. He gripped his knife, reckless, choosing to lead them deeper, not away.
"We go east,"
he said, voice firm, a man's defiance over a boy's fear. His mark burned, their blood too close, like fate wasn't his alone.
Doma's cane tapped, weak.
"The Hollowreach wants this,"
he said, eyes flickering, like a torch fading.
"The marked don't choose. They answer."
The blood trails glowed faintly, thorned, like the noose.
"Kcel's here. His spirals mark the dead."
The patrol's lanterns closed in, a voice cutting through the fog, a metallic tang, like blood on a whetstone, trailing a whisper of steel being drawn:
"Alive, if possible. Whole, if necessary."
A patrolman flinched, muttering,
"Yes, Inquisitor Kcel."
Teon's mark recoiled, as if it knew the voice. He pulled Sura into a crevice, Brik, Lune, and Doma slipping west, shadows swallowing them. The patrol passed, their cloaks bearing three-eyed crow sigils, thorned, their lanterns casting shadows—too many joints, too many eyes, like the whisperer in the mist.
Brik's voice echoed, soft, broken.
"Don't let us burn, Teon."
Lune's knife gleamed, her hand brushing his, a pit-born promise faltering. Doma's eyes dimmed, his whisper faint:
"The noose doesn't break."
Sura's scar flared, the noose curling tighter.
"It's waking something,"
she said, clutching the music box, its thorns biting. The scroll's dirge was a rusted chain, a scent of burnt hair in the air.
Teon's mark screamed, the whisperer's shape lingering—twisted, wrong, like memory carved into bone.
The Gut held its breath, but their scars were screaming.