A thin crack under the door leaked lamplight onto the carpet, a bright line that didn’t belong. Sofia Reyes lay flat on her back and counted her breaths anyway—four in, four out—like she was back on a rig with a monitor screaming and a patient trying to die politely. The mattress cradled her in a way that felt practiced. Too gentle. Too curated. She slid a hand over her torso. No gloves. Her scrub pockets lay empty, limp. No radio to thumb on. No phone brick digging into her hip. Her pulse jumped once, hard, and she swallowed it down. Clean hit her next. Not hospital-clean. Wax and crushed herbs, with a metallic bite under it. Ozone, like someone had just fired a defibrillator in the next room and walked away. Sofi rolled onto her side, pushed up, and let the cool sheets slip off her shoulders. Her bare feet sank into thick rug, the pile clinging between her toes like it wanted to keep her here. A hiss threaded through the walls—steam, steady, mechanical. Nothing alive breathed like that. “Okay,” she whispered, and hated how small it sounded. High above, dark wood beams arched across the ceiling, braced with brass struts that looked like they belonged inside an engine. She sat on the edge of the bed and ran inventory the way she always did when the world got weird: exits, tools, threats. Wardrobe carved with briars. Washstand with a bowl of water already warm, as if someone had been waiting with a stopwatch. One tall, narrow window fitted with rippled glass and iron filigree—pretty, until you looked at it like a cage. No obvious cameras. Which meant nothing. Sofi crossed to the door. Brass chilled her palm, cold enough to sting. Faint grooves under her fingers glimmered, pulsing dimly. Runes. Great. She tried the latch. It yielded with a soft, civilized click. Pressure shifted behind her eyes, as if the room had leaned closer to listen. A single chime rang—sweet, bright, like a nurse’s desk bell—and somewhere inside the wall gears caught, teeth clicking into place. The knob fought her. Sofi tightened her grip until her nails bit her skin. She twisted again. It didn’t budge. “Cute.” The word came out louder than she meant. “A trap with manners.” The ozone tang sharpened, prickling her throat. She let go before she could earn herself a burn, a brand, a cuff made of light. Her fingertips tingled anyway, not from electricity but from the wrongness of being answered by a door. She went to the window. Ornate brass catch. Old-world flourish. Her thumb flipped the lever. Easy. Then the ironwork outside whispered. The filigree shifted, bars sliding inward until the opening narrowed, like the building had reconsidered its generosity. Sofi froze, hand still on the lever. For a second her mind tried to drag up the bus crash—glass, screaming, the moment everything slowed to syrup and her brain went blank. Not here. She forced her hand down. Forced her breathing steady. “All right,” she murmured. “Long way.” She swept the room for anything loose. Anything sharp. Anything accidental. The place offered none of it. The pitcher by the washstand sat heavy, but it would shatter loud. The mirror had no seam to pry. The lampshade edge looked stitched down, like someone had checked it for contraband. Polite prison. A click came from the hall. Sofi turned her head. Another click, closer. Footsteps, careful on the carpet. No keys. No cart. Whoever it was paused outside her door as if waiting to be invited. Sofi didn’t blink. The handle turned on its own. The door opened only a sliver, showing a thin slice of corridor. A figure hovered there in dark livery trimmed with silver braid, posture ruler-straight. Half their face stayed in shadow. “Good morning, Sofia Reyes.” Their voice carried practiced courtesy, smoothed down until it could glide over anything sharp. “I trust you woke without distress.” Sofi stepped closer, keeping her shoulders loose, her weight ready. “Where am I?” “The Briar Court.” “Where’s New York?” A pause, measured. Calculation, not confusion. “Not within your present authorization.” Sofi stared at them. “So I’m not allowed to leave.” “Correct.” Their gaze dipped to her bare feet, then returned to her face, judgment packed neatly inside etiquette. “You are held under collateral terms.” Collateral. Like a title. Like a debt. Sofi kept her expression flat. Her jaw didn’t cooperate; it hardened anyway. “Who set those terms?” “The Crown. More specifically, Thorne Ashworth-Blackwood.” The name didn’t sound like a person. It sounded like a lock clicking home. “I want to speak to him.” “You may request an audience at the proper hour.” The gentleness in their tone made Sofi’s molars ache. “Provided the Crown chooses to grant it.” “And if I don’t wait?” Sofi took one step toward the gap. “If I walk out right now?” The servant lifted a hand, palm open. No touch. No threat. Still a stop sign. “Then you would breach collateral protocol. That would be… unwise.” “You keep saying that like I’m gonna care.” Their mouth tightened. “You will care when the court responds.” Sofi glanced past them. The hallway ran long, lined with tapestries in heavy frames, gas lamps, and brass pipes along the ceiling like veins. Everything shone. Every shadow looked placed. “My stuff,” Sofi said. “Phone. Radio. Shoes. Clothes.” “Your personal effects are secured. For safety.” “For your safety,” Sofi corrected. The servant didn’t deny it. A tiny shift of weight answered for them. “Tell me something useful.” Sofi kept her voice even, the way she talked to combative drunks and panicking moms. “Who authorizes movement? You? Guards? Some… magical turnstile?” Their gaze slid away and back, quick. Not fear of her. Fear of saying the wrong thing. “There are tokens,” they admitted. “And papers. And marks. All must match.” “Okay.” Sofi nodded like she’d just been assigned a patient. “Where do I get a token?” “That is not within your current—” “Authorization.” She cut in. “Yeah.” They didn’t flinch. “You may walk within your assigned corridors, provided you do not approach the mooring levels, the treaty library, or the Crown’s private hall.” “Mooring levels.” Sofi let the phrase hang. “That’s where you keep the airships.” A flicker. Throat bobbing once. “So there’s a yard.” Sofi leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Docks. Routes. Schedules. Manifests.” “That is not your concern.” “It’s my whole concern.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m an EMT. I solve problems with what’s available. Right now, what’s available is your mouth.” The servant’s gaze sharpened. “Care is not the same as entitlement.” A short laugh slipped out of Sofi, more breath than sound. “In my world, if someone’s hurt, you don’t debate entitlement. You help.” Their eyes dipped, then rose. “Trade,” they said, tasting the word like it was new. “Information for compliance.” Sofi kept her hands loose at her sides, palms visible. “You want me calm and contained. I want to know how to get home.” The servant’s gaze lowered. “You are collateral.” Heat spiked behind Sofi’s ribs. She swallowed it like she swallowed smoke. “Stop calling me that.” “It is the legal term.” Quieter now. “I do not make it.” “Fine.” Sofi lifted both hands, palms out, a medic’s gesture—don’t fight me. “What do you call the other humans you keep here?” The corridor seemed to hold its breath. The servant’s eyes snapped back to hers. “Other humans?” Smooth voice, but the shine cracked. “You have been told there are others?” Sofi didn’t answer. She watched them, waited for the truth to leak. “I wasn’t born yesterday,” she said. “People vanish. You don’t build cages this fancy for a one-time guest.” Their nostrils flared. They glanced down the hall like the wallpaper might repeat them. “There are… records,” they said, finally. “Registries.” “Where?” “That is restricted.” Sofi blew out a controlled breath through her nose. “If I were bleeding out, would you tell me the bandages are restricted?” Their mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Your comparisons are crude,” they murmured, the faintest edge of amusement slipping through. “But… effective.” “I’ll take it.” Sofi tipped her chin toward the hall. “So. Can I walk?” “You may,” they replied, stepping back. “Provided you remain within the assigned corridors.” “Assigned by who?” “The clause.” The answer came too easily, like gravity. Sofi stepped out barefoot anyway. The hallway carpet felt denser than the rug, swallowing sound. Perfume and polish floated in the air; underneath, rust lurked, metallic and sour. The servant fell in beside her, half a step behind, trained to orbit. “Please do not test the house again.” “I’m gonna test everything until something breaks.” “That is danger.” “Yeah.” Sofi kept her eyes forward. “I noticed.” Doors passed, identical to hers. Brass knobs. Thorn-shaped keyholes. Some had faint light seeping underneath. Others sat dark and sealed. Sofi’s pulse kept trying to sprint. Steam hissed through the walls, threading into her skull, steady as a machine keeping time. The corridor bent and opened onto a landing where a tall window showed a slice of sky the color of old bruises—gray-green, wrong. Iron balconies wrapped the building in layered levels. Out beyond them, something moved. Not birds. Too big. Too slow. A low thrumming rose through the stone under her feet. Propellers. Sofi’s body tipped forward before her brain caught up. Shoulders tightening. Weight shifting. Route. Exit. Home. Leni’s face flashed in her mind and left a sharp ache behind her sternum. The servant’s hand touched her elbow—light pressure, firm steering. “Do not,” they murmured, polite even now. “Not the mooring levels.” Sofi turned her head just enough to look at them. “So that’s where the sound’s coming from.” “It is.” Regret landed right after the word. Their fingers loosened. Sofi kept walking anyway, following the vibration like it was a trail. Carpet gave way to polished wood. Wood to metal grating that rang faintly under her steps. Brass pipes ran along the walls, warm under her palm when she brushed them. Somewhere overhead, a valve squealed. Coal-smoke edged into the air, gritty against her tongue. Wind slipped through unseen gaps and brushed her cheeks, cold and damp, carrying wet iron and burning fuel. They reached a wide archway hung with velvet drapes. Beyond: a spiral stairwell of iron and brass, lanterns burning blue at the edges. A sigil floated at the threshold, light arranged into an intricate mark like a stencil in midair. It pulsed once as Sofi approached. The glow brightened. A thin line of light slid over her from head to toe—slow, intimate, wrong—then paused at her chest as if weighing something inside her. It snapped red. A sharp chime rang, louder than the first. The velvet drapes stiffened and yanked themselves shut, sealing the archway with a decisive sweep. Air tasted like pennies. Ozone bit hard. Sofi jerked back, hands lifting on instinct. “What the hell is that?” “A gate sigil.” The servant’s breath had sped up. “It reads status.” “I’m not a fucking barcode.” Their eyes widened at the language, then darted around as if the walls might tattle. “Please. Lower your voice.” Sofi leaned in, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “So what’s my status?” The servant swallowed. “Collateral.” Something inside Sofi went cold. “And what gets through?” “Those with mooring authorization.” The servant’s shoulders drew inward. “Crew. Nobles. Couriers. Those with tokens that match the level.” “So.” Sofi’s mind clicked, precise and relentless. “I need a token.” “You will not be given one.” “Not by you.” She held their gaze. “By someone who wants something.” The servant stared back like she’d just kicked a support beam. “You are not listening.” “I’m listening,” Sofi said. “I’m just not obeying.” The drapes didn’t twitch. The sigil held steady, a watchful red. Sofi studied the seam where velvet met velvet, hunting for weakness. Nothing. A mouth refusing to open. “What happens if I push through?” Her voice stayed calm, a medic’s calm—the kind you use when you’re trying not to let the patient hear your fear. The servant’s lips parted. Closed. Fear tightened their jaw. “It marks you as attempting breach. Then… the court responds.” “Responds how?” Their gaze dropped to her feet, then to the sigil. “Punishment varies.” Sofi’s mouth twisted. “You’re amazing at specifics.” “They watch for threshold-sick humans trying to jump,” the servant whispered. “Threshold-sick.” Sofi rolled the phrase around. It tasted like an excuse dressed up as diagnosis. “Is that what I am?” “You came through.” Their eyes flicked up, quick. “You did not… dissolve. That makes you—” “Dangerous.” Sofi finished it for them. They didn’t correct her. Sofi stepped back, forced her lungs to do their job. The wind teased her hair, and for half a second the smell shifted—Bronx winter, bus exhaust and street-cart smoke and life. Then polish swallowed it again. “Take me back.” The words scraped out. The servant exhaled like a valve releasing. “Of course.” They walked in silence for three steps. Sofi counted them. Reset her pulse. “You said tokens and papers and marks,” she said. “Who writes the papers?” “The treaty clerks.” “And the treaty library is restricted,” Sofi replied, already drawing a map in her head. “Yes.” “So you’ve got a library. Manifests. Airship schedules.” She stopped on the landing and faced them. “And you’re telling me none of it’s mine to see.” “It is not.” Gaslight spilled across the servant’s cheek. Too-smooth skin. Eyes too reflective. Uniform fitted like obedience had been tailored and buttoned. Sofi softened her voice. Not kindness. Strategy. “I’m not asking for keys to your kingdom. I’m asking where the rules are written. If I’m collateral, someone wrote down what that means.” The servant’s throat moved. “It is written.” “Then I need to read it.” Sofi held the gaze steady. “I’m not sitting in a pretty room until I rot. I’ve got people back home who’d bleed for me.” Something quick moved behind their eyes—human, hidden. Their voice came out thin. “They will not. They will forget.” Sofi’s stomach dropped, straight through the floor. She kept her face still by sheer effort. “They won’t.” “Mortals always say that.” Sofi leaned in, almost gentle. “What do you say?” The servant’s fingers curled at their sides like they wanted to tear through invisible cuffs. “I say… I do not wish to be the one who delivers the message that you tried to jump.” A leash, at last. And fear that didn’t belong to someone in control. “Okay.” Sofi nodded once. “Then don’t.” She turned and walked back toward her room, forcing them to follow. Brass fixtures flashed her reflection back at her—washed-out, barefoot, a ghost in scrubs that were suddenly too thin. Halfway down the corridor, someone passed at the far end. A footman. Too stiff in his shoulders. His right wrist bulged under a wrap, cloth dirty at the edges. He held it tight against his chest like every step jarred pain through him. Sofi’s brain snapped into triage. She veered. The servant hissed her name under their breath, warning. The footman froze when she reached him. His eyes flicked to the servant, then back to Sofi, panic sharpening his face. “It’s sprained,” Sofi said, nodding at the wrist. “Or worse. Who wrapped that?” He pressed his lips together until they went white. Sofi kept her hands visible, slow. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m gonna fix it.” The servant stepped closer. “You are not authorized to—” Sofi cut them off with a look that had ended plenty of arguments in alleyways and ER bays. “I’m authorized by basic decency.” The servant’s mouth tightened. “Decency is not a currency here.” “It’s the only one I’ve got.” Sofi turned back to the footman. “Can I touch your wrist?” His eyes widened at the question—like permission was a language he’d forgotten. He nodded once, quick. Sofi’s fingertips brushed the gritty cloth. The wrap scratched her skin, stiff with old blood or dried sap. She unwound it carefully, letting each layer fall without jerking the joint. The smell hit—antiseptic, almost alcohol, but wrong. Mint over rot. Underneath, the wrist was swollen and bruised, mottled dark purple with a faint gray shimmer. Heat radiated off it, then chilled, as if the injury couldn’t decide what rules it followed. “Jesus—” Sofi caught herself. “Sorry. Okay. Hurt when I press here?” The footman flinched hard. “Yes.” Sofi checked his fingers, cap refill, movement. “Numb at all? Tingling?” He stared at her like she’d spoken sideways. “I… do not know.” That answer hit harder than the swelling. Sofi rotated his hand gently, listening to the tiny creak of tendon. Something clicked under her thumb. Wrong click. “You need it re-wrapped. Better.” She didn’t look at the servant when she spoke next. “And you need a splint.” The servant hovered close, tense. “The healers—” “Your healers did this?” Sofi flicked her eyes to the filthy cloth on the floor. “Come on.” A flash in the servant’s eyes. Their voice dropped. “He did not report it.” The footman stiffened, shame and fear tightening his face. “Why not?” Sofi asked him. His gaze fell to the carpet. “It would be… trouble.” Sofi swallowed the heat climbing up her throat. “All right. No trouble. We do it quietly.” She looked up at the servant. “Clean cloth. Something stiff—wood, spoon handle, I don’t care. And if you’ve got anything like tape—” The servant blinked. “Tape.” “Sticky,” Sofi snapped, then reined it in. “Holds things down.” Their mouth twitched like a laugh they didn’t dare. “I will see what may be procured.” “Good.” They hesitated, then leaned in close. “You will return to your room after.” Sofi held their gaze. “You bring me what I need, and I’ll be right where you want me.” “And in return?” The servant’s voice sharpened. Sofi kept the footman’s wrist supported, steady. “You bring me a registry excerpt. Names. Dates. Anything.” “That is restricted.” Sofi glanced at the dirty wrap again. “So are clean bandages, apparently. Yet here we are.” The servant’s gaze flicked down the corridor, then back. Their shoulders tightened like gears locking. “An excerpt,” they said, finally. “From the guest ledger. Not the full registry.” “I’ll take it.” Sofi didn’t let relief show. She couldn’t afford to. The servant moved away fast, their quiet footsteps suddenly too quick to be casual. Sofi focused on the footman. “You’re doing good. Breathe.” He tried. Shallow. Uneven. Sweat beaded at his hairline, and his face stayed pale in that too-warm light. “What’s your name?” Sofi asked. His eyes widened, fear sharpening again. “I… do not—” “Okay.” Sofi softened immediately. “No names. Look at me. Wiggle your fingers.” He obeyed, slow. His ring finger lagged. Sofi kept her hands gentle. “All right. We splint it. Keep it elevated.” He nodded like she’d just handed him a life raft. The servant returned with clean cloth and a narrow strip of dark wood, smooth and straight like it came from a drawer made for this. They set down a small tin; when the lid came off, sharp herbs punched the air. “This salve,” the servant murmured. “It will reduce swelling.” Sofi dipped a finger in. Cool, slick. The smell stung her nostrils—medicine with a metallic undertone. She spread it carefully over the bruising. The footman hissed, then sagged as the sting faded. “Good,” Sofi told him. “That’s good.” She laid the wood along his wrist and wrapped firm, not tight, checking his fingers as she went. The cloth rasped her knuckles. She tied a clean knot and tugged until it held. “Better.” The footman stared at the splint like he couldn’t believe it was allowed. Sofi leaned closer. “If it gets colder or your fingers go blue, you find me. You got it?” He nodded fast. The servant watched, face unreadable. Their hands clenched and unclenched at their sides, like the sight of care did something messy inside them. Sofi straightened. “Now,” she said, quieter, “about that ledger.” “You will return to your room.” Sofi nodded once. “Lead the way.” Back inside, the room greeted her with the same calm shine. The door clicked shut behind them, and Sofi’s skin prickled, waiting for the trap to tighten. The servant crossed to the washstand and set down a folded sheet of rough, fibrous paper stamped with a briar emblem in dark ink. They placed it like it burned. “Guest ledger excerpt,” they murmured. “As promised.” Sofi moved closer without snatching it. Hands slow. Controlled. “This is the registry of humans?” “It is a portion. Names are… obscured. For privacy.” “Privacy.” Her laugh came out brittle. “Sure.” The servant’s voice clipped, like they wanted the words out and done. “You are held under an ancient treaty clause. Your movement is a legal matter. Not a kindness.” Sofi picked up the paper. The texture scraped her fingertips. Ink bled unevenly into the fibers. Tight script ran in columns, each entry stamped with symbols she didn’t recognize. Some names remained. Others had been blacked out with thick strokes that looked too much like dried blood. “You’re telling me I’m legally owned.” Her voice stayed low. The servant’s eyes sharpened. “No. You are collateral.” Her teeth ached from how hard she clenched her jaw. “Who benefits?” “The Crown. The realm.” “And me?” The servant’s gaze flickered, almost pity. “You remain alive.” Sofi stared until the lines blurred, then forced herself to blink and refocus. Survival offered like a favor. Paperwork pretending to be mercy. “Okay.” She lifted her eyes. “What do you want for the next excerpt?” “There will not be another.” “Everyone has a price.” Their lips tightened. “Not everyone survives paying it.” Sofi didn’t look away. “Then tell me what happens to humans who try to leave.” Silence stretched. The servant swallowed like something sharp had lodged in their throat. “They jump,” they whispered. “They reach the mooring levels. They try to take an airship during rotation.” “Rotation.” Sofi pinned the word to the wall. The servant’s eyes snapped to hers. Too late. “And if they jump?” “They are made examples,” the servant said, voice taut. “To discourage others.” Sofi’s grip tightened on the paper until it crinkled. “So there are others.” The servant’s gaze dropped. “There have been.” Sofi scanned again, hunting patterns. Dates. Symbols repeating like a code. Columns: an origin stamp, a term mark, a witness column that made her throat tighten. Witness. For what. For whom. One line shifted—the origin symbol changed, strokes forming something like a skyline. New York. Her breath snagged. Ink beside it held a name that hadn’t been fully erased. Just enough letters left to haunt her. —R. Washington. Decades old. A margin notation: Rotation: Winter Quarter. Asset stabilized. Never returned. Her fingers went numb. Marcus Washington flashed across her mind—sharp eyes, Harlem stoops, the way he’d tear the city apart if she vanished—but the date didn’t match. Still, the line sat there like proof that New York had been bleeding into this place for a long time. “How many from New York?” Sofi asked, not looking up. The servant’s breathing turned shallow, measured, like they were trying not to exist. “Sofia Reyes,” they started, soft, “do not—” “How many,” she repeated, sharper. A whisper. “More than you would like.” Metal flooded her mouth. She swallowed hard and forced herself back to the page. Another margin note snagged her: Airship rotation—change of watch—bell toll at third glass. Third glass. Not a time she knew. Still a time. Sofi looked up slowly. “When’s the next rotation?” “It is not your concern.” “It is,” Sofi replied, voice flat. “Because I’m not just getting myself out. I’m getting them out, too.” The servant’s expression flickered—fear, and something like longing. The word freedom didn’t get spoken, but it sat between them. “You cannot,” they said, and the words lacked bite. Sofi’s hands shook. She set the paper down before she tore it. Her fingers flexed once, then curled into fists with purpose. “Watch me.” “Compliance keeps you safe.” “Safe like that footman’s wrist was safe?” The servant flinched. Sofi held onto that flinch like a stolen match. “Bring me something to write with,” she said. “Pencil. Pen. Charcoal. Anything. I need to copy this.” Their gaze flicked to the door, then to the ceiling corners, as if the room could report them. “You are asking me to risk much.” “And I just saved someone’s hand,” Sofi shot back. “We’re both risking. That’s the deal.” The servant’s jaw tightened. “You will not leave this room.” “Not yet.” Sofi kept her voice low. “But I’m gonna plan.” “Planning is dangerous.” “Being unprepared is worse.” The words slipped out, rawer than she meant. “I’m not gonna freeze again.” The bus crash surged up—glass, screams, that awful slow-motion blankness—and Sofi forced her shoulders down, forced her breath into steady counts. Not here. Not now. The past would snag on these briars and drag her under. The servant studied her, something cautious threading through their gaze. Almost respect. “I will see what may be done.” They left. The door shut with a soft click that sounded too final. Sofi stood alone with the ledger excerpt on the washstand like a blade laid out for her. Steam hissed behind the walls. Ozone lingered faintly, as if the house remembered her hands on its locks. Her stomach growled, loud enough to insult her. Only then did she realize how empty she was. A knock. Sofi’s muscles tightened. The door opened, and the servant entered carrying a tray. The smell hit first—broth, rich and savory. Bread, crusty and pale. Steam rose from a porcelain bowl in slow curls that dampened Sofi’s lashes. Beside it lay a folded wool wrap, thick and dark, embroidered with a briar emblem in silver thread. A gift. A leash. The servant set the tray down with unusual care. Their hands lingered on the edge a fraction too long, like they wanted to say something and couldn’t risk it. “This is for you,” they murmured. “To restore strength.” Sofi didn’t reach for it. “Why?” “It was ordered.” “By Thorne Ashworth-Blackwood.” A pause. “Yes.” Even kindness came stamped with the Crown’s seal. Sofi hated how much she wanted the bowl anyway. She wrapped her hands around the porcelain. Warmth seeped into her palms. Steam softened her face. The scent—meat, herbs, salt—hit deep enough to hurt. She lifted the spoon. The clink sounded too loud in the polished room. One sip. Heat slid down her throat, slow and steady. Her shoulders loosened without permission. A shaky exhale escaped her chest, the first real release since she’d woken. She ate again. Then again. Across the room, the servant stood by the door, posture rigid, eyes tracking Sofi’s hands—the way she held the spoon like a tool, not a luxury. “You can sit,” Sofi said, voice rough. “I’m not gonna bite.” “That would be improper.” “Everything about this is improper.” Sofi tore bread; the crust crackled under her fingers. She chewed slowly, letting the warmth steady her. “What’s your name?” Alarm snapped through the servant’s gaze. “I do not—” “Okay.” Sofi lifted a hand. “No names. Fine. But you’re a person. Not just… a function.” “I am a functionary.” “Yeah.” Sofi’s voice softened. “I’ve met a lot of people who call themselves that. It’s how you survive.” Silence answered, but the servant’s shoulders eased a fraction, like the words slipped under armor they wore every day. Sofi reached for the wool wrap and shook it open. Heavy. Soft. The fibers trapped warmth the moment she draped it around her shoulders. The briar emblem settled over her collarbone. She traced the embroidery once, slow. The thread rose under her touch—textured, stubborn. Comfort with ownership stitched into it. Her eyes drifted back to the ledger excerpt. Rough paper. Dark ink. Secrets folded into columns like bones into a joint. “I’m gonna need more than this,” she muttered. “This is more than most receive,” the servant said, quiet. Sofi looked up. “And what do most receive?” The servant’s gaze slid away. Hands clenched, then relaxed. “A room. Food. Time. Until they become… part of the court’s narrative.” Sofi’s mouth tightened. “Like a file you can shelve.” A flinch. Small, but real. “Yes.” She took another spoonful, slower now, using the act to think. Food as strategy. Warmth as a tool. Panic got people killed. Competence kept them alive long enough to fight. “Bring me the writing thing,” Sofi said. “And something about timekeeping. A bell chart. A schedule. Anything.” The servant hesitated. “Why?” “Because I’m not guessing,” she replied. “I’m planning. Planning means I don’t waste moves.” Their gaze hardened. “Every move is watched.” “Then I’ll make the watched moves count.” They reached into a pocket and pulled out a short stick of charcoal wrapped in paper. It landed on the washstand like contraband. Sofi’s breath caught. “Thank you.” The servant’s expression tightened. “Do not thank me. It changes nothing.” “It changes something,” Sofi said, and meant it. She pulled the ledger excerpt close and flipped the tray’s paper liner over. Blank underside. Good enough. The charcoal scratched against the fibers, leaving thick marks. Her hand shook once; she steadied it by pressing her forearm to the surface. She copied the New York symbol first. Then the partial name. Then the rotation notation: third glass, Winter Quarter, change of watch. She drew a quick grid, columns laid out like a medic chart—origin, term, witness, rotation. Witness. Her throat tightened on that word. Sofi looked up. “Why humans?” The servant’s face went blank too fast. “It is tradition.” “Bullshit.” Not loud. Sharp. The servant’s eyes flashed. “Mind your tongue.” Sofi leaned back. The chair creaked softly. She let the broth’s heat settle low in her stomach and waited until her pulse slowed enough to keep thinking. “Okay,” she said, quieter. “Then answer this. If I’m collateral, what happens when the court’s done with me?” “That depends on the Crown’s needs.” “And if the Crown needs me forever?” The servant’s gaze dropped. “Then you remain.” Sofi’s fingers tightened around the charcoal until it cracked, dust blackening her skin. She wiped her thumb on the tray liner and kept writing. Escape wasn’t a feeling. It was steps. When she’d copied what she could, she folded the liner into a tight square and slipped it under the mattress edge. Hidden. Stolen. Hers. “Rotation happens during change of watch,” Sofi said. “That’s when people move. That’s when doors open.” “You have been listening to rumors.” “I listen to everything.” She didn’t smile. “It’s how I keep people alive.” The servant swallowed. “Rumors are currency.” “Then spend them on me.” Sofi leaned forward. “Tell me when the next bell tolls.” Their hands clenched and unclenched, a small betrayal. “Soon.” “That’s not a time.” A breath. Then, barely audible: “It is… the next third glass. Tonight.” Sofi’s pulse jumped. Window. Risk. Her mind began stacking steps, gear teeth catching. “Tonight,” she repeated, steady as she could fake. “Okay.” The servant took a step back, as if intention carried heat. “Do not attempt to breach.” Sofi tilted her head. “And if I do?” Fear tightened the servant’s face like a drawn string. Their eyes flicked to the door. “Then the clause will tighten. It always collects.” Sofi’s mouth went dry. She saw runes flaring, marks burning, the wrong name dragged into the wrong contract. “I won’t drag anyone else into this,” she said, low. The servant’s gaze sharpened. “There is already a named party.” Sofi’s stomach dropped. Leni. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t say it.” Their lips parted, then closed. “It is dangerous to speak names.” Sofi hid the tremor in her hands by lifting the bowl and taking one last sip. Warmth helped, but it didn’t touch the cold fear underneath. The servant moved to the door. Fingers brushed the brass handle like they were soothing an animal. “Wait.” Sofi stood. “One more thing.” They paused with their back to her. “Who wrote the clause?” Sofi asked. “Who decided New York keeps paying its debt?” The servant’s shoulders rose, then fell. “I do not know.” Not fully true. Or not safe to say. They opened the door. Cold air slipped in, carrying distant coal-smoke and the faint thrumming of engines. Before they left, the servant glanced back, eyes bright with something restrained. “There are ears in the walls,” they murmured. “And eyes in the ink.” Then they slipped out and shut the door gently. Sofi stood still, wool heavy on her shoulders, copied excerpt hidden where her hands could find it in the dark. Steam hissed. The faint ozone-metal scent hung around her like a warning. The brass grooves on the door pulsed once. A rune flared across the wood like a thorned brand, bright enough to sting her eyes. Cold washed through the room, snapping the borrowed warmth into something fragile. A final click. Decisive. Hungry. Somewhere far off, bells began to toll—slow, measured—counting a time she didn’t know how to read yet. Sofi pressed her palm to the sealed door. Brass bit her skin with clean, sharp cold. She listened for the house to answer. Nothing. Tonight could be her first real window. Or the court’s first real test.