The Black Tithe was not a place.
It was an event.
And it didn't appear twice in the same city.
This time, it was held in the shadow of Old Varrow, a crumbling fortress stitched together with cursed beams and half-living stone. The kind of place history had forgotten and the underground embraced.
Only the marked were allowed inside.
Eliar had marked himself with silence.
He wore a traveler's cloak coated in ash-thread, his Echo Core dimmed to avoid detection. At his side, Kiren walked with a limp and a forged curse brand across her palm, forged, but convincing.
The guards at the gate didn't ask questions.
They didn't need to.
Everyone who came to the Tithe was either dangerous… or disposable.
Inside, the stench hit first.
Musk, old blood, melted thread wax.
The auction hall was built into the bones of the fortress. Dozens of merchants gathered around stone benches carved with glyphs. A stage of polished obsidian stood at the far end, flanked by two massive slabs: one for relics, the other for bodies.
A woman in a plague mask stepped forward, arms outstretched.
"Welcome, faithful and forsworn, to the 27th Black Tithe," she called.
"We offer blood and bindings, past and future. Bid with coin, curse, or contract. The threads do not forget."
Eliar kept his head low.
His eyes scanned the relic block.
So far: worthless junk. Cracked dagger runes. Broken seal fragments. A mimic-thread in a jar.
Then—
The woman held up a small object: a medallion, shaped like a coin split down the middle. On one side: the 🜏 sigil.
On the other, a mark he'd only seen once, deep within the Cursekeeper's old archives.
The Second Seal.
Not whole.
But part of it.
Kiren leaned in.
"That's what we came for."
"Not yet."
The bidding began. Voices shouted numbers. One man offered a child's soul imprint. Another, a curse-forged vow of servitude.
Eliar held still.
Until the medallion began to hum.
Low. Soft. Only he could hear it.
It was calling to his Core.
Before he could move, the auctioneer raised a hand.
"Lot pulled," she announced.
"Private interest has claimed it. Tithe rule applies."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Private interest meant someone had already paid, enough to make the auction stop. Only the wealthy. Only the powerful. Or…
Only the truly dangerous.
Eliar clenched his fists.
Someone knew he'd come.
Then the auction shifted.
The relic slab was covered.
And the second block opened.
A boy was dragged onto the stage — no older than ten. Pale, blindfolded, hands wrapped in rune-thread.
The announcer's tone didn't change.
"Lot Twenty-Seven. Human vessel. Three Echo brands embedded. Two still stable. Potential for Core seeding."
Eliar's stomach turned.
They were selling a child.
Not as a slave.
As a tool. A living container for Echoes.
He looked closer.
The boy's head tilted slightly.
Then, his lips moved.
Just barely.
Eliar's Core pulsed.
A thread of memory, not his own, flared up inside him.
"Cursekeeper," the boy mouthed.
"You said you'd come back."
Eliar froze.
He knew that voice.
Not from this life.
From the other one.
The one that burned.
The boy had been there, in the fire.
In the manor.
Watching.
Waiting.
Kiren whispered, "You okay?"
"No."
He stepped forward.
The crowd parted slowly as he approached the stage. A guard reached for his weapon.
Eliar didn't stop walking.
He summoned an Echo mid-stride, a version of himself covered in fire burns, wearing no expression.
The guard drew the blade.
The Echo snapped his neck before he could shout.
Gasps.
The auctioneer raised a hand, trembling slightly.
"Sir, the Tithe forbids interference—"
"I invoke Cursekeeper's Rite."
The room froze.
Kiren hissed under her breath. "That's not a real law."
"It is now."
He leapt onto the stage and stood before the boy.
The blindfold slipped.
Eyes, black-threaded and full of stars, stared back.
Eliar placed his hand on the boy's chest.
A curse-core pulsed beneath the ribs. Three Echo signatures flickered inside. two broken, one stable.
"Who are you?" Eliar whispered.
The boy replied in a voice that didn't sound like his own.
"I was you. Once. When you chose not to rise."
Eliar blinked.
The Seal fragment in his pocket began to glow faintly.
This boy wasn't just a vessel.
He was an Echo from a lost timeline — one that survived, got sealed, and lived on.
The crowd began to stir.
Too many eyes.
Too much power flaring.
Someone would attack soon.
Kiren pulled his sleeve. "We need to move."
Eliar turned to the auctioneer.
"You're shutting this down."
"You can't—"
He pointed to the cracked Echo medallion.
"You sold the Second Seal. To who?"
She hesitated. Then muttered,
"A man in gray. No eyes. Paid in ash-gold. Gave only a message."
"What message?"
She swallowed hard.
"The Thread King is waking. The boy is not welcome."
That name again.
The Thread King.
Not just myth. Not a bedtime story.
The original source of the Curse Cycle.
Eliar turned to the boy.
"Come with me."
The boy didn't hesitate.
The cursed threads released him. The bindings unwrapped. One of the broken Echoes inside him vanished in a soft wisp.
The other two… remained.
They escaped before the guards could regroup.
No blood.
No theatrics.
Just shadows and silence.
As they disappeared into the woods, Eliar finally spoke.
"What's your name?"
The boy tilted his head.
"I don't have one. You never gave me one. In the last life."
Eliar was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "Then this time… I will."