A folded towel waited on the bench. White linen—too pristine for a place that smelled like sap and old stone. I scrubbed my hands down my arms, trying to peel off the court’s perfume, that bruised-leaf sweetness that clung to hair and skin. The thorn bit my palm the second I lifted the cloth. Fresh, green at the base. Not grown there—placed. I opened the fold wider. Beside the thorn sat a faint ink stain: one tally mark, neat as a clerical note. Counted. Cataloged. My throat tried to close around the air, but I swallowed it back. Not here. Not where the walls did their own listening. Rafe Nash stood outside my door, straight as a gatepost. No shift in his face when I shoved the towel back onto the bench. His eyes dipped to the bead of blood on my hand and slid away, like acknowledging it would make it real. “Take me to Beatrice Pemberton.” His jaw barely moved. “She doesn’t receive guests at will.” “Then take me to the ledger. Treaty room. Whatever has my name in it.” A quiet moment passed—one of his unasked questions hanging between us. Then, flat and final: “You are collateral.” “Collateral gets recorded.” I lifted my hand, palm up. “Let’s go read my receipt.” Something tightened along the side of his neck. He stepped aside anyway, and the corridor opened. No clocks in the Briar Court. Time came by other means: drips landing too evenly, scratches in stone set at waist height like habits that couldn’t be broken. Cold breathed up from the floor into my bare feet. I kept my steps short. Not delicate. Ready. Somewhere ahead, a quill rasped against paper—steady, patient. The sound worked under my skin faster than a siren. We passed a sconce where candle smoke curled the wrong way, not drifting but leaning, intent on my face. I lowered my chin and shut my mouth. Rafe watched it too. He said nothing. Two turns. A stairwell I didn’t remember. On the third step, moss slicked the edge, bright green against gray stone—too bright, too neatly placed to be chance. I stopped before my foot touched it. Rafe’s hand shot out, not touching me, just blocking the space. His palm hovered near my shoulder like he’d been trained out of contact. “Different route.” “This is the route.” “Then it’s a bad one.” I pointed. “You see that moss.” “I see.” “And you were gonna let me step on it.” His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I don’t set the moss.” “You don’t have to.” The words came out sharp, and I hated the tremor riding under them. “Someone did.” Silence pushed back, heavy as a thumb on a bruise. “Move,” he said at last. “Left side. Heel to wall.” So he’d noticed. He just hadn’t corrected it until I forced it. Fine. I slid down like a kid forced into gym drills, heel grinding against stone. The wall scraped skin off my ankle; it stung clean and bright. Better scraped than broken. The moss sat in the corner of my vision, gleaming like it was pleased with itself. At the bottom, Rafe’s boots landed on the safe strip with a deliberate stomp. He didn’t step on the moss either. “Who benefits if I fall?” I kept my voice low. “Not me.” “So not Thorne Ashworth-Blackwood, either.” A beat. His gaze flicked up, then away. Answer enough. The treaty hall waited behind doors carved with briars and deliberate blank spaces, as if the wood refused to commit. Rafe pushed them open without ceremony. Warmth rolled out, thick with parchment dust and that sap-sweet scent. Beatrice Pemberton stood at the central table. Her hair was pinned tight enough to hurt just looking at it. Gloves the color of old paper covered her hands. She lifted her eyes, and the smallest shift at the corner of her mouth told me she’d already heard footsteps and counted them. Celia Castellano lounged by the shelves like she belonged there more than the books did. A cup rested in her fingers, holding something dark. Candlelight caught her smile and held it there. “You look damp, Sofia Reyes.” Celia’s gaze lingered on my wet hairline, like she could taste it. “How domestic. Someone tend to you?” “I’ve been counted.” I showed her the puncture in my palm. Red beaded at the edge. “Is that the part you like?” Beatrice’s attention snapped to my hand, then back to my face. “You’ve come to demand something.” “Yeah.” I stepped to the table and planted both hands on the edge. The wood felt rough under my palms. “I want my file. I want the clause. I want the exact language that says you get to keep me. No ‘chosen.’ No ‘bound.’ Words. Ink.” Celia’s lips curved. “Mortal obsession with paperwork. Cute.” “Don’t.” My voice clipped into EMT cadence. “Show me.” Beatrice hesitated. Her eyes slid to Rafe, then to the door, as if measuring how far sound could travel. “Protocol requires a petition,” she murmured. “And a witness.” “I’m the witness.” The snap came out before I could sand it down. I dragged in a breath, forced it slow. “And if you mean the King—fine. Bring him. I’ll ask him to his face.” Celia tipped her cup. The liquid didn’t slosh. It sat too still. “Careful,” Celia murmured. “He doesn’t enjoy being summoned.” “Neither do I.” I held Celia’s stare. “Yet here we are.” Beatrice’s voice dropped, thin as thread. “You’ve already been recorded under witness status. That isn’t in dispute. What you’re asking for is—” “A translation.” I leaned in. “A mechanism. Claim, debt—whatever you call it. What is it.” Celia set her cup down. No clink. Just… absence, like sound got swallowed before it could form. “You want to know why Thorne chose you,” Celia purred. “Because you want it to mean something. Because you want to feel special.” Heat crawled up my neck. My fingers tightened on the table edge until the wood bit back. “I want it to mean I can go home,” I said. “And I want the other humans too. Names. Locations. Conditions. Not your poems.” Beatrice reached for a ledger. The cover looked like bark stitched with black thread that caught candlelight slickly. When she opened it, the ink gleamed as if it hadn’t finished drying—alive in a way ink shouldn’t be. That distant quill-scratch sharpened, suddenly near, like the room leaned closer. Beatrice turned pages with careful hands. Not reverent. Cautious. Like misfiling a life would cost her. “Your entry.” She tapped a line. My name sat there in black: **Sofia Reyes (Sofi)**. Beneath it, columns. Dates that meant nothing. Symbols that made my wrists prickle, as if my skin remembered gloves that weren’t there. “Read it.” Beatrice’s throat worked. “I’m not permitted to read the Crown’s claim aloud without—” “Without what?” Her eyes flicked toward Celia, then Rafe, then the door again. “Without the claimant present. Or his express allowance.” Celia’s smile softened. “See? Even ink obeys him.” “Or he’s afraid of what happens if we all hear it,” I shot back. “Which is it?” Celia’s eyes narrowed, pleased in a way that made my stomach turn. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Not Rafe’s heavy tread, not a servant’s quick shuffle. This pace expected the world to move aside. The warmth in the room thinned by a degree. Thorne Ashworth-Blackwood entered like every shadow had made room for him. Dark coat. High collar. Bare hands. His gaze landed on the open ledger first, then on me, as if the ink mattered more than my pulse. “Beatrice Pemberton.” His voice was precise. “You’ve opened a primary register without summons.” “I was compelled by the collateral’s petition.” Beatrice’s formality snapped into place like armor. Celia inclined her head. “Your Grace. Sofia has… questions.” Thorne’s eyes stayed on me. No warmth. No flinch. Yet the way his shoulders held—too still, too controlled—looked less like predatory ease and more like restraint braced to the point of pain. “What do you want?” No contraction. Like the words cost him. I lifted my pricked palm. “Someone left me a thorn. And a tally mark. I’m done with vague. I want the clause. Out loud. Today. In English.” The quill-scratch went frantic for a second, then steadied. “You’re not entitled to demand—” Celia began. “She’s entitled to request clarity,” Thorne cut in, calm as a blade laid flat on a table. “Provided the request doesn’t endanger the treaty’s balance.” My molars ground together. There it was—his condition, his escape hatch. “Does telling me the words endanger the balance?” His gaze didn’t move. “It endangers the comfort you’ve been permitted.” “Good.” I swallowed against the dry in my mouth. “Comfort’s not the goal.” Beatrice’s gloved fingers tightened on the ledger’s edge, creasing paper-colored leather. Thorne stepped to the table. Close enough that the air by my knuckles shifted with him. I didn’t back up. I didn’t lean in either. Proximity wasn’t desire; sometimes it was just standing near the thing that could ruin you. “Read,” he told Beatrice. Celia’s eyes sharpened, a quick flicker like a flame catching draft. Beatrice lowered her chin. “By Crown allowance, I will read the relevant clause pertaining to Sofia Reyes, herein recorded as collateral under life-debt claim.” Life-debt. My spine locked. The phrase landed heavy, like a gurney wheel clicking into place. “Life-debt claim,” I repeated. “So I’m not a hostage.” “You are collateral,” Beatrice murmured. “As recorded.” Thorne’s gaze stayed on the page. “Continue.” Beatrice read, clipped and careful. “ ‘Upon threshold breach within mortal jurisdiction, should a licensed caretaker render sovereign aid to a party of the Briar Court—known or concealed—such aid constitutes rite of triage, henceforth binding the caretaker as witness-bearer under old law. The Crown may file claim in briar-ink, taking the caretaker into keeping until the debt is balanced, as measured by the treaty’s accounting.’ ” My mouth went dry. Licensed caretaker. Sovereign aid. Rite. The room tunneled. Candle smoke leaned toward my lips again, and I held my breath to keep it out of me. “I didn’t—” The words snagged. I forced them into order like a report on a chaotic scene. “I didn’t consent. I didn’t sign. I didn’t even know what you were.” “Consent is a mortal custom,” Celia cooed. “Here, action is language.” “Shut up.” It came out too fast. I faced Beatrice again. “Rite of triage. That’s me doing my job.” Beatrice’s eyes flickered with something she tried to bury. “Under the treaty, yes.” Thorne finally lifted his gaze to mine. “You crossed into my borders and performed a sovereign act.” “I treated someone,” I snapped. “Who?” Celia laughed—quick, bright, gone. “Oh, sweetheart. Still clinging to romance. Thinking it must’ve been a lover, a prince, a—” “It was you.” The certainty tasted like iron. Thorne didn’t blink. He didn’t confirm. He didn’t deny. The silence pressed on my throat like a hand. “Answer.” My nails dug into my palms. “Did I treat you? Did I put my hands on you at the threshold?” Beatrice kept reading, because she couldn’t stop now. “ ‘The claimed collateral must remain alive and present within the Briar Court’s keeping, protected by the claimant’s obligation, until satisfaction is rendered. Any attempt to void the claim by unlawful death shall trigger balancing measures as described in Appendix Thorned—’ ” “Stop.” My voice cracked the air. “Back up. Protected by the claimant’s obligation. That’s Thorne Ashworth-Blackwood.” Rafe shifted near the door. Boots against stone. Warning without words. Thorne’s jaw tightened—one small fault line in the control. “You are under my claim. Therefore you remain under my protection.” A cage of a sentence. Still, cages had bars, and bars could be tested. I leaned closer. “So you can’t kill me.” “I won’t kill a guest under my roof without offering a path to trial by old law.” “Not what I asked.” I held his stare. “Can you let me die. An accident.” Celia’s fingers tightened around her cup. Her smile stayed. Her eyes didn’t. Thorne’s attention flicked to Celia once—just once. A warning in a glance. “I am bound,” he said, each word placed carefully, “to keep the collateral alive and present until the debt is balanced.” Relief hit like a latch giving way somewhere inside my ribs. Thin, wary relief. Not comfort. Not safety. But proof he wasn’t all-powerful. Then the dread followed. If he couldn’t kill me, someone else would keep trying. Someone already had. I turned to Beatrice. “What does ‘balanced’ mean? Time? Service? Blood? Don’t give me poetry.” Beatrice’s mouth pressed thin. “It isn’t a single measure.” “Pick one.” I jabbed a finger at the ledger. “Give me a definition. Ballpark.” Celia leaned forward, delighted. “Listen to her. Little mortal figures.” Beatrice ignored her. Smart. “Satisfaction is achieved when the treaty’s accounting records an equivalent return for the sovereign aid rendered at breach.” “Equivalent return.” My tongue felt thick around it. “So I saved a life. Now I owe a life?” “No.” Beatrice answered too quickly, then softened. “Not precisely.” Thorne’s gaze stayed steady. “Your triage stabilized more than flesh. It stabilized narrative.” “What the hell does that mean?” My voice shook on the last word, and I hated it. “It means you prevented a collapse at the border.” My stomach dropped. Border collapse. Catastrophe. “By treating you,” I said, low, “I stopped something from spilling into my city.” Celia’s smile sharpened. “You’re learning.” “If I die, the claim is void,” I said, and watched Beatrice flinch. “It is—” she began. “It is disputed,” Thorne cut in. “Do not presume certainty.” “But you said you’re bound to keep me alive.” I turned on him. “Bound because you filed the claim.” “Yes.” “So if I die, you’re free.” Stillness settled hard, like the pause before impact. Celia’s voice slid in, almost gentle. “Free is a strong word. Unburdened, maybe. Less… constrained. Imagine what he could do without you, Sofia.” My hands curled into fists on the table edge. Nails bit skin. Pain brought me back into my body. “Who’s counting down?” I looked at Thorne, not Celia. “Who wants you unburdened?” He didn’t answer. Of course not. Walls. Ears. Rules. His eyes flicked to the ledger, though—those inked lines. Like the truth sat there and he hated it. I exhaled slowly through my nose. “Okay. Here’s my debrief. Tell me where I’m wrong.” Rafe’s posture tightened. Celia looked entertained. Beatrice looked faint. I spoke anyway. “The night I crossed—wind like a vacuum. People bleeding. A man came out of a…” My throat tightened. “Out of a shard. He had paper. He threatened my partner. Told me I could classify. I gave care. I stabilized.” Thorne’s eyes narrowed by a fraction at classify. “That’s the moment,” I said, pointing at him. “That’s when it locked. You filed a claim, not because you kidnapped me for fun, not because destiny. Because I did something that counted as law.” Beatrice’s gloved fingers trembled once on the ledger. Celia’s smile faltered, then returned brighter, like she’d chosen it. Thorne’s voice came calm, inevitable. “Your reconstruction aligns.” My stomach rolled. The wrong save. Another version of every second I’d ever tried to be fast enough. “You let me think I was a hostage,” I said. “You let me think you could do whatever you wanted.” “I let you think what preserved order.” His gaze didn’t waver. “This court doesn’t survive truth delivered without preparation.” “That’s convenient.” A broken laugh escaped me. “So I’m collateral on a life-debt I triggered doing my job. Great. Perfect.” Beatrice lifted her chin slightly. “Sofia…” “No.” I cut her off. “Don’t soothe me. Give me options. How do I pay it. How do I go home. How do I take the other humans with me.” Celia’s gaze sharpened. “There it is. The heroic fantasy.” “It’s not fantasy,” I said. “It’s an extraction plan. With paperwork.” Thorne watched me like he was weighing a tool. Something banked in his eyes—controlled, dangerous, contained. “You may not remove what is owed to the treaty without replacing it,” he said. “Then I replace it.” I didn’t blink. “You want stability. Fine. I’ll help you keep it. Then you cut me loose. You cut the others loose too.” Celia’s laugh came soft. “You think you can bargain a realm with EMT stubbornness.” “I think I can bargain with rules,” I shot back. “Rules you’re chained to.” Rafe cut in, blunt. “Careful.” I didn’t turn. “I am.” “No.” His voice went harder. “You’re loud.” That landed. Loud got you killed here. I swallowed and lowered my voice. “Thorne Ashworth-Blackwood. Can you enforce your obligation against your ministers? Against Celia. Against whoever keeps leaving thorns in my towels.” His gaze flicked to my palm, the tiny puncture. The tally mark—I hadn’t shown it, but he knew. Of course he did. “I can enforce,” he said. “Within the bounds of law.” “Define bounds.” “I cannot accuse without proof. I cannot punish without trial. I cannot silence what the court will not fear.” Celia tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Is that a confession of weakness, Your Grace?” He didn’t even look at her. “It is a statement of structure.” I leaned my weight into my hands. “Then give me proof. Give me access. Give me the appendix. Give me the accounting measures.” Beatrice inhaled like she’d been holding her breath for an hour. “Appendix Thorned is restricted.” “I don’t care.” I felt my pulse in my teeth. “Make a petition. I’ll sign it. I’ll bleed on it. Whatever. But you’re not keeping me in the dark while someone arranges my accident.” Celia’s smile stayed. Her eyes cooled. “Accidents aren’t anyone’s fault. Stone gets slick. Tea can be too strong. Mortal hearts fail under strain.” She looked me over. “You look strained.” Every muscle in my body screamed to move. I stayed still. Forced my hands to unclench. Thorne’s gaze shifted to Celia. The temperature in the room dropped, clean and sharp. “You will not threaten the collateral in my presence.” Celia lifted her brows. “Threaten? I offered concern.” “Concern is not required.” Beatrice closed the ledger with a soft thud. The quill-scratch faded, retreating. My skin stopped crawling—just a little. “Here’s what I need,” I said, snapping into triage because it kept panic from swallowing me. “One: a written statement of your obligation to keep me alive and present. Two: a list of all human collateral currently held. Three: the procedure for satisfaction. Four: the deadline. There’s always a deadline.” Beatrice started, “There is—” Thorne spoke over her, smooth. “There is a balancing.” My stomach clenched. “When.” His pause lasted one heartbeat too long. Celia leaned in, delighted. “Go on. Tell her. Let her sleep with it.” Thorne’s eyes cut to Celia, then back to me. “Within seven nights, the ledger will seek equilibrium.” Seven nights. A tally. A countdown. My tongue tasted like salt. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to sting. “And if it doesn’t?” I asked. Beatrice answered, voice low. “The treaty enforces correction.” “Meaning?” Her eyes dropped. “The border weakens. The debt seeks payment where it can. Mortal streets. Mortal bodies.” New York. My hands shook. I flattened my palms on the table, feeling the grain, forcing my brain to stay in the room. Focus. Plan. Don’t freeze. Thorne’s voice stayed controlled. “You will not be permitted to leave before balancing.” “Then we make it balance,” I said. “On our terms.” Celia’s smile went lazy. “Our. How intimate.” I didn’t give her the oxygen of a glance. Thorne studied me. His gaze slid to the bracelet—the band that had stamped approval over my name before—and back to my face. “You intend to use my obligation as leverage.” “Yes.” The word came clean. “Because you used my job as a trap.” Something crossed his expression, too quick to grab. Not regret. Not quite. Recognition, maybe—like he’d stepped on a nail once and never forgot the puncture. “You will be escorted back,” he said. “You will be afforded a bath. Proper rest. If you collapse, you become useless.” Celia’s eyes glittered. “How tender.” “It is not tenderness,” he replied without looking at her. “It is accounting.” Accounting meant rules. Rules meant edges. Edges meant leverage. I stepped back from the table. “Beatrice Pemberton. You’re going to help me draft that petition. Tonight.” Beatrice’s lips parted, then closed. She nodded once. “Yes. Quietly.” “Rafe Nash.” I turned to him. “I want a safe route back. Not the moss stair. Not the corridor that tries to feed me smoke.” His gaze met mine. Hard. Honest. “I will choose.” Celia lifted her cup again, and the liquid caught the light wrong—too glossy, too still. “Drink,” she murmured, holding it out. “For your nerves. You look like you might faint.” The scent hit before thought could form. Crushed almonds. Bitter-sweet, like marzipan gone rotten. My stomach flipped. Pulse kicked. I stared at the cup, then at Celia’s clean hands and unchanged smile. “I’m good.” I kept my voice even. “I don’t take drinks from people who keep tally marks.” “Paranoid.” “Alive.” Thorne’s gaze snapped to the cup. Stillness spread through the room. “Celia Castellano,” he said, calm enough to be terrifying. “Remove that from this room.” Celia held his stare. Slowly, gracefully, she set the cup back on the shelf like nothing had happened. “Of course. As you command. I merely wished to be kind.” Thorne didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Rafe moved first, stepping between me and the shelf as if his body could block intent. He still didn’t touch me. He didn’t need to. We left the treaty hall with iron on my tongue and the number seven lodged behind my teeth. The corridor looked the same—stone, briar carvings, candlelight—but my body moved through it differently. Not chosen. Collateral. Not romance. Accounting. Not omnipotence. Constraint. Around a corner, the air cooled. The faint quill-scratch returned, patient again, like it had never stopped. At a junction where three hallways split, Rafe paused. The left breathed warmer air. The right carried damp chill. The center smelled faintly of rosemary and smoke. “Bath,” I said, because my skin still itched with court-scent and because exhaustion had killed people I couldn’t save. Rafe nodded once and took the rosemary corridor. The bath chamber waited behind a carved screen. Steam drifted through the cutouts and pressed warm fingers over my knuckles, making every scrape throb. Rafe stayed outside. His silhouette cut the light into narrow bars through the woodwork. “You will not lock the door.” “I wasn’t planning to.” I let it mean what it meant. Trust wasn’t a gift here. It was a wager. A folded stack of clothes sat on the bench: linen, soft, pale. A towel on top. I checked it before my hand committed. No thorn. No ink. Someone had learned—either the person leaving messages or the person cleaning up after them. I stripped fast with my back to the screen. Steam beaded on my skin and made every bruise speak up. The bracelet stayed on. Of course it did. The shackle didn’t care about modesty. Hot water waited in a stone basin. The surface rippled as I lowered in, inch by inch, until heat wrapped my ribs and loosened the tight band at the base of my skull. My shoulders dropped before I could stop them. Under the water, I ran my thumb over the puncture in my palm. The sting pulsed with my heartbeat. Seven nights. The bath smelled of rosemary and smoke—clean, sharp, as if someone tried to scrub sin out of stone. I let the heat do what it could. Muscles unclenched. Breathing slowed. Steam blurred the ceiling carvings into shifting shadow-shapes. Whispers threaded the walls sometimes. Not words. Just the suggestion of them. The water drowned most of it. Thank God. I washed with the herbal soap left by the basin, scrubbing until the court’s scent faded. Arms, neck, collarbones, behind my ears—places fear liked to hide. My fingers found the bracelet’s edge. It warmed under the water, then cooled, as if reacting to thought. I didn’t try to break it. Not tonight. My mind snapped into checklist anyway, because panic loved a vacuum. Stay alive. No shortcuts. Petition with Beatrice—Appendix Thorned, deadline procedures, satisfaction options. Human collateral list—names, conditions, locations. Use Thorne’s obligation, not trust. Figure out who wanted me dead. Celia didn’t stain her own hands. That meant outsourcing. That meant accidents. A memory tried to surge—sirens, twisted metal, my hands hovering for one second too long. I sank deeper until water pressed against my chest and forced my breathing to obey. A soft knock tapped the screen. Controlled. Not polite. “Yeah?” I called. Thorne’s voice came through the carved wood, precise. “You will remain in this chamber until you are dry and dressed.” “I’m not a child.” “Under the treaty, you are collateral.” A pause. “Collateral is preserved.” My teeth clenched. “I want that written statement.” “It will be provided.” Another pause, measured. “Provided you do not provoke the court.” A short laugh escaped me, sharp-edged. “So I’m supposed to stay quiet while someone tries to kill me.” His answer came softer, not kinder—closer. “My protection is law, not affection. Do not mistake its limits.” Law had edges. Affection didn’t. Law could be used. “Who left the thorn?” Silence. Heavy. Like he weighed which truths could survive the room. “I did not,” he said at last. Not an answer. Everything anyway. “And the tally mark?” I pressed. “You are not the only one who keeps accounts.” Heat crawled up my throat—half anger, half something I refused to name. “Seven nights,” I said. “What happens on the seventh.” “The ledger seeks equilibrium.” “I know that part.” I swallowed. “What does it look like. A hearing. A ritual. A storm.” “A balancing event at the mooring levels.” Mooring levels. Airships. Manifests. Routes. Freedom tied to someone else’s schedule. My pulse kicked hard enough to make my ears ring. “So you’ll take me there.” “I will have no choice.” Wrong and right tangled until neither one came clean. “Tell me one thing.” I kept my voice low. “If I die, does it free you.” Silence stretched until it felt like the building held its breath. “It frees others,” Thorne said. “Not me.” The bottom dropped out of my stomach. “What do you mean.” “You are a lock.” Calm. Controlled. “Some in my court prefer an open door.” “Into New York,” I whispered. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t confirm it. The rules clanged shut around the truth. “I will not permit harm to come to you,” he said, formal as a vow. “But I cannot watch every corridor.” So I had to. All of them. “Then give me Rafe Nash,” I said. “Full time.” A breath, barely audible. “He will escort you where he can.” Not yes. Not no. Court language. “Fine.” My voice came out thin. “I’ll take what I can get.” His footsteps retreated. The air warmed by a degree after he left. I stayed in the water until my fingers wrinkled and my skin stopped buzzing with adrenaline. Standing up, steam clung to me, heavy and damp. I toweled off hard; rough linen scraped me awake. Clean towel. No thorn. No ink. Still, my hands checked every fold like it was a reflex I’d earned. Dressed in linen, I stepped behind the screen. Wet hair twisted cold down my back. Rafe waited exactly where he’d been, gaze forward, posture locked. “You spoke with the King.” “Yeah.” My voice came out hoarse. “He’s… less free than he wants people to think.” Rafe’s eyes flicked to mine. “So are you.” It hit harder than it should’ve. We walked back by a route I didn’t recognize, which meant it was either safer or a new trap with better manners. I tracked every scent, every draft, every uneven stone. Overhead, a vine hung low. A dark glossy leaf held a droplet at its tip. It fell. Drip. Then another. Drip. Too precise. Too even. My mouth tasted like salt again. At my door, Rafe stopped. His hand hovered near the latch without touching it. “Do not drink what you did not pour.” “I know.” My throat tightened around the words. “Thanks.” He hesitated. Rare. “Someone will try again.” Not a warning. A fact. “I know,” I repeated, and hated the tremor that slipped through. “They want the claim void.” Rafe’s jaw tightened. “They want order. Their kind.” “My kind doesn’t count.” His eyes held mine, steady and merciless. “You count. That is why they count you.” He stepped away before I could find an answer. Inside, lamplight waited. The room smelled faintly of rosemary, like the bath had followed me home. My clothes lay where I’d left them. The towel—my earlier towel—sat folded on the bench again, neat as if someone had come in just to prove they could. I shouldn’t have cared. My hands opened it anyway. The thorn had returned. Pressed deeper into the fold this time, angled to pierce. Beside it, the ink stain had doubled. Two tally marks. My breath caught. Blood drained from my fingers until they felt numb. Seven nights. Two marks already. Somewhere in the walls, that quill scratched faster, eager as a witness.