The auction hall loomed ahead like the belly of some beast waiting to swallow me whole. My stomach clenched so hard I thought I might throw up. We hadn't reached enough people. Even I could tell that.
The rumor-mongers and street hawkers were loud, but the Wharf was louder. It would swallow Clause K-Nine whole unless we could make it undeniable.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my shirt. "We're screwed, aren't we?" I asked as Hecate led me toward a side alley.
"We're not done yet," she said simply.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting," she said, her foxlike eyes narrowing as we pushed through the thinning crowd.
I could feel the stares again. People recognized me now. The boy from the auction who had blurted out a fake clause and signed his own death warrant.
"He's back," someone muttered.
"Idiot doesn't know when to quit."
"I hope they strip his name too."
I gritted my teeth and kept walking.
Hecate ducked into a narrow alley that smelled of stagnant water and fish guts. She led me up a flight of rickety stairs to a shadowed room at the back of a shuttered shop.
The space was cramped, lit by a single oil lamp flickering on a warped wooden table. Ink stains marred the floor. The faint hum of the Wharf carried through the thin walls.
Hecate set a battered leather satchel on the table and pulled out a small black-bound book. She dropped it in front of me with a thud.
"What's this?" I asked, eyeing it like it might bite.
"The Clause Codex," she said. "Every ratified clause in Namelock Wharf's Ledger, going back fifty years."
I blinked. "Why do you have this?"
"Because I'm an Auditor," she said, already flipping through the book. "And because you're going to need it to build Clause K-Nine."
I stared at her. "Build it? I can't even read half the words in there."
"Then you'll learn," she said, sliding the Codex toward me. "You've got thirty minutes left. Pick something to base it on.
"I can't do this," I said, panic creeping into my voice.
"You can," she said sharply. "Or that boy loses his name. And you lose your chance to ever be more than a coward who ran his mouth and couldn't back it up."
The words hit harder than I wanted them to.
I sat down and flipped through the Codex, the pages whispering under my fingertips. Clauses scrolled by in tight, curling script: Clause D-3, Property Reclamation; Clause F-11, Witness Compensation; Clause K-5, Root Name Forfeiture.
My eyes caught on Clause K-5 and I froze.
It was everything I'd just tried to stop.
I pushed the book toward Hecate. "This one. We use this as the base. Reverse it somehow."
She studied the page. "It could work," she said slowly. "But you'll need a trigger condition and a termination clause. Otherwise it won't hold."
"English, please," I said.
She sighed. "A condition that activates it," she said. "And a clear definition of when it ends. That's how the Wharf knows when to enforce it."
I chewed the inside of my cheek. "What about… it activates when a minor's name is about to be erased, and it ends once the debt is resolved?"
She tapped her fingers against the table. "That's thin. But it might be enough—if we get it witnessed."
"How many witnesses?"
"As many as we can find," she said. "But we'll need more than random people on the street this time. We need credibility. People who the Wharf believes."
I felt sick. "We don't have time for that."
"Then we make time," she said, slamming the Codex shut. "We go back to the hall now. You'll recite the clause in front of everyone and I'll validate it."
"That's suicide," I said.
She leveled me with a look. "So is doing nothing."
We moved fast. Back through the alley, across the swaying rope bridge, past shops closing their shutters against the incoming Tide.
The crowd was thicker near the hall. The auctioneer's voice echoed faintly through the warped boards, counting down the last lots before the boy's name was called again.
"Five minutes," Hecate said, glancing at the clock tower overhead.
My knees felt like water.
We pushed through the door and the noise hit me like a fist.
The hall was even more packed than before. Word had spread. People jostled for space, whispering sharp little comments as they saw me.
"There's the clause-runner."
"Think he's going to beg?"
"Hope they strip his name too."
I swallowed hard and kept moving.
The auctioneer spotted me and sneered. "Well, look who came back to die," he said, voice booming. "Do you have a fully ratified Clause K-Nine for us, boy?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Then Hecate stepped forward, her coat sweeping the floor. "We do," she said.
The hall fell silent.
I looked at her in panic, but she gave me a single sharp nod.
Say it.
I stepped up to the podium, my hands shaking so badly I had to grip the edge to stay upright.
"Clause K-Nine," I began, my voice cracking, "is a provisional identity stay. It activates when a minor's root name is at risk of erasure. It pauses the process until the debt can be resolved or legally nullified. It protects… it protects the name."
Murmurs rippled through the room.
The auctioneer laughed. "That's it? That's your miracle clause?"
"It's valid," Hecate said sharply, her voice slicing through the laughter. "I am the Auditor of this district. My apprentice's clause has my authority. Which means it holds."
Someone in the back shouted, "Prove it!"
"Yes," the auctioneer sneered. "Let's see your witnesses."
I looked at Hecate.
She stepped aside.
And the hawkers, the street kids, and the tavern owners we'd talked to earlier pushed into the hall, shouting over each other.
"I heard it straight from him!"
"Clause K-Nine's valid!"
"The Ledger already accepted it!"
The noise grew, louder and louder, until even the auctioneer looked uneasy.
He slammed his hammer on the podium. "Quiet!"
But the crowd didn't quiet.
More people were shouting now, some because they believed, some because they didn't want to be the only ones who didn't.
Belief makes Verity.
Verity makes it real.
The auctioneer's jaw tightened. "This is irregular," he growled.
"Not anymore," Hecate said. "It's ratified. Call the boy and his mother back in."
The auctioneer hesitated, but the crowd was restless now, and he could feel it. If he pushed too hard, he'd lose control of the room.
He gestured to a guard. "Fetch them," he snapped.
The boy and his mother returned a few minutes later, looking like they expected to be dragged to the gallows.
I stepped down from the podium and knelt so I was at the boy's level. "You're safe," I said softly.
He didn't say anything.
The auctioneer cleared his throat. "Clause K-Nine," he said grudgingly, "has been provisionally accepted. The boy's name is… protected."
A cheer went up in the back of the room. It wasn't for me, but I didn't care.
The mother collapsed into tears, clutching her son.
I stepped back, my legs trembling.
We'd done it.
Then the doors at the back of the hall slammed open.
Veylan strode in, flanked by two Syndic enforcers. The crowd parted for him like the Tide pulling back before a wave.
"Well, well," he said, his voice smooth as poison. "Look at you. I have to admit, I didn't think you'd make it this far."
My stomach dropped.
Hecate stepped forward, her expression cold. "You're not welcome here, Veylan."
"Oh, I think I am," he said, glancing around the hall. "Because while you were busy playing hero, you forgot one little detail. The Syndic doesn't care about your clause."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
He smiled, slow and sharp. "Clause K-Nine only buys time. But it doesn't erase debt. And the Syndic doesn't wait forever."
The crowd murmured nervously.
Veylan's gaze locked on me. "You've painted a target on your back, clause-runner. And the Syndic… doesn't miss."
Then he turned and left as quickly as he'd arrived, leaving a silence so heavy it felt like it could crush me.
I looked at Hecate, my hands still trembling.
"What do we do now?" I whispered.
Her foxlike eyes glittered in the lamplight.
"Now," she said, "we prepare. Because Veylan's right. Clause K-Nine won't hold forever. And the Syndic is going to come for us."