The hour started the second the auctioneer's hammer cracked the podium, and I had no idea where to even begin.
The crowd swelled around me in a suffocating tide of bodies, voices crashing over each other like a storm. They weren't even pretending to whisper anymore.
"Guy's dead meat."
"He's going to get himself blacklisted, mark my words."
"I hope he tries. I need something to laugh at today."
Someone jostled my shoulder deliberately as they pushed past. "Nice move, hero," they sneered, their breath hot and sour with the stink of cheap ale. "Think you're going to rewrite the Ledger? Can't wait to watch you get gutted when the hour's up."
I stumbled back, gripping the back of a chair for balance. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. It wouldn't matter what I said. The Wharf didn't need a reason to hate someone—it just needed an easy target. And I'd just painted the bull's-eye on my forehead.
The boy and his mother were gone. They'd slipped out a side door as soon as the hammer fell. They hadn't looked back. I couldn't blame them.
"Follow me," a voice said behind me, smooth and cutting through the noise like a blade.
I spun around. The fox-eyed woman was already moving toward a side exit, her long black coat sweeping the floorboards. She didn't even check to see if I was coming.
"Wait—who are you?" I called after her, shoving through the press of people.
She didn't slow. "Someone who might help you keep that boy's name," she said.
That was enough. I pushed past the last knot of sneering faces and followed her out into the Wharf's choking air.
Namelock Wharf wasn't any kinder outdoors. The city was a twisted lattice of boardwalks and alleys, sagging platforms stacked over one another like a child's tower of blocks. Everything smelled of brine and mildew, and the Tide hissed below, a constant reminder of how far you could fall. Rope bridges swayed under the weight of too many bodies, and lanterns swung lazily from hooks, casting crooked shadows that made everyone look hungrier, sharper.
People stared as we passed. I could hear the mutters chasing me like gnats.
"That's him. The clause-runner idiot from the auction."
"Why's Hecate with him?"
Hecate. So that was her name.
She walked like the stares didn't exist, like the Wharf itself parted for her. It didn't. But people got out of her way all the same.
A ragged-looking man leaning against a stack of crates spat in our direction as we passed. "Clause K-Nine, huh?" he said, his voice wet and mocking. "That's a new one. You planning to pull a miracle out your ass, boy?"
"Leave him," Hecate said without turning her head, her voice light as a whip crack.
The man's smirk vanished instantly. He looked down and muttered something, shrinking back into the crowd.
I jogged a few steps to catch up. "Okay, first question: how does everyone know your name? And why are they acting like you own the Wharf?"
"Because I'm an Auditor," she said simply.
"That's… not an answer."
"It's the only answer you need," she said.
We turned into an alley so narrow the walls felt like they were closing in. She ducked through a door marked with a rusted sigil, and I hesitated only a moment before following her in.
The room on the other side was small and cluttered, thick with the smell of ink and burning lamp oil. Books and ledgers teetered in precarious stacks on every surface, some so tall they leaned like drunks.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing at a chair that looked ready to collapse under me.
I sat.
"Now," she said, gliding behind a battered desk, "we're going to have a conversation about your situation. Because right now? You're not going to make it through the next fifty-five minutes."
"I know that," I snapped. "I'm not stupid. But I couldn't just stand there—"
"Yes, you could have," she said sharply, cutting me off. "But you didn't. Which means you've volunteered yourself for a problem you don't understand."
I glared at her. "Then explain it."
She stared at me for a long, quiet moment, then opened a drawer and pulled out a clean sheet of parchment. She laid it on the desk and set a slender black pen beside it.
"Oath Equation," she said.
"What?"
"You're going to sign an Oath Equation with me," she said. "It makes you my apprentice. Which gives you my authority. Which means for the next hour, you might actually have a chance of surviving this."
I blinked. "Wait, apprentice? That's… that's a real thing?"
"Yes," she said, pushing the pen toward me. "And it's your only chance to ratify Clause K-Nine before the deadline. Or would you rather try to convince the Wharf to believe in you alone?"
I looked at the blank parchment. My hands felt suddenly clammy.
"What happens if I sign?"
"You'll work under me," she said. "You'll obey my instructions. You'll learn, you'll earn, and if you fail, you'll probably die. There's no glory in it. Only work. And cost."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you walk out of here," she said, "and you watch that boy's name get erased forever."
I swallowed hard.
The clock was ticking.
I picked up the pen.
The nib scratched across the parchment as I scrawled my name. Hecate signed beneath mine with movements so deliberate it almost hurt to watch, each stroke curling into a shape that wasn't just a letter. When she lifted the pen, the parchment glowed faintly, as though seared by invisible fire, then dimmed back to normal.
My palm tingled.
"What… was that?" I asked.
"Oath Equation," she said. "It's binding. You're officially my apprentice. And now I can actually help you."
"That's… comforting," I muttered.
"You'll be thankful when you're not dead," she said.
I leaned forward. "Okay, so now what? We've got—what, fifty minutes left? How do we make Clause K-Nine real?"
Hecate's lips curved faintly. "We fake it," she said. "We make enough people believe it's real that the Wharf solidifies it into the Ledger."
I blinked. "So… exactly what I said at the auction."
"Yes," she said. "But correctly this time."
We left the office together. Outside, the Wharf was busier than before. I didn't know if it was the Tide or just word of Clause K-Nine spreading. Either way, every glance felt like a knife.
"That's him," someone whispered.
"You're wasting your time, Hecate. He's finished."
We stopped at a corner where a group of street hawkers clustered around crates of dried fish and stolen odds and ends. These were the rumor-mongers, the ones who traded whispers as readily as coin.
"Start here," Hecate said.
"What? Why me?"
"Because it's your clause," she said. "They have to believe you."
I took a deep breath and stepped forward.
"Hi," I said, my voice cracking a little. "You've probably heard about Clause K-Nine…"
One of the hawkers, a wiry woman with half her teeth missing, barked a laugh. "Oh, we heard. You're the fool who made it up."
"It's not made up," I said quickly. "It's… it's real. It's just… being finalized."
A big man with a shaved head leaned forward, folding his arms over his chest. "You got proof, clause-runner?"
My mouth went dry.
Then Hecate stepped forward, and the entire group went silent.
"This boy," she said smoothly, "is under my authority. Which means Clause K-Nine exists. And if any of you want to risk saying otherwise, by all means, step forward."
No one did.
"Good," Hecate said. "Now spread it. Clause K-Nine is valid. Witnesses will be rewarded."
The hawkers didn't need telling twice. They scattered into the crowd, already shouting the news like the incoming Tide.
"That bought us time," Hecate said as we walked. "But not enough. We need more witnesses."
"How many more?" I asked.
"As many as we can find," she said.
We stopped at a bridge where children were darting back and forth across the planks, chasing each other with wild laughter. Hecate called them over and pressed a single Verity coin into the grubby palm of the biggest one.
"Run," she said. "Tell everyone Clause K-Nine is real. Tell them the Ledger has already accepted it."
The boy's eyes went wide, and he bolted off, the others following like a pack of noisy little messengers.
"You see how this works?" Hecate said.
"Yeah," I said, though my heart was still hammering. "Lie loud enough and it becomes the truth."
She smiled faintly. "Welcome to Namelock Wharf, apprentice."
We didn't make it far before someone stepped into our path.
A man in a threadbare coat. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His face was scarred, and his eyes were cold.
"Veylan," Hecate said, her voice sharpening.
"Always a pleasure, Hecate," the man said, though the way he looked at her made it clear it wasn't. "Word is you're trying to ratify a fake clause."
"Word travels fast," she said.
Veylan's gaze slid to me, slow and assessing. "You don't look like much, clause-runner. You think you can outplay the Syndic?"
My throat tightened. "I don't… I just—"
"Careful," Hecate murmured.
Veylan stepped closer. "If you're smart, you'll walk away right now. Let the boy's name go. Save yourself the embarrassment. And the consequences."
I clenched my fists. "I'm not walking away."
Veylan's lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then I'll enjoy watching you fail."
He turned and melted back into the crowd before I could respond.
We moved quickly after that, whispering to shopkeepers, tavern owners, anyone who would listen. But the clock was ticking.
And as the auction hall came back into view, my stomach knotted so tight I could barely breathe.
There were still too few witnesses. Too few believers.
If we failed, the boy would lose his name.
And I'd probably lose much more than that.