“She said death came as a friend then, not a creditor. Said the reapers walked among us, gentle as rain, kind as twilight. The Ashen Accord taught that Death was passage, not punishment.”
The words hit Damian like cold water. He'd heard whispers of the Accord, fragments of the old religion that had been outlawed when the Time Exchange rose to power. Dangerous talk, the kind that got people Hollowed.
“Stories,” he said carefully, listening to the way his voice echoed in the small space. “That's all they are.”
Mrs. Kess smiled—he could hear it in her voice. “Maybe. But sometimes stories are all we have to keep us warm.”
Damian placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the familiar tingle of connection. Her skin was cool and fragile, like touching moth wings. Paincraft was intimate magic, requiring trust and surrender from both parties. He opened himself to her suffering, letting it flow into him like poison through his veins.
The pain hit him like a landslide. Mrs. Kess's agony poured into him, forty-seven years of stolen time condensed into pure hurt. His bones went brittle, his muscles trembling with the weight of decades. The darkness behind his eyes somehow deepened, and he tasted copper and ash. The weight of her lost years settled into his body like lead.
But he held on, drawing her pain into himself until her breathing eased, until the tension left her shoulders. This was what he lived for, these moments when his own suffering hadmeaning. When the emptiness inside him could be filled with someone else's relief.
“Better?” he asked when it was done, his voice rough with borrowed anguish.
“Much.” Her voice was lighter now, the fever-edge replaced by something like peace. “You're a good boy, Damian. Your mother would be proud.”
He helped her to her bed, packing his tools as she pressed something small and glassy into his palm. His fingers traced etched symbols—patterns that felt familiar, though he'd never admit it.
“For protection,” she whispered. “The Accord teaches us that Death is not the enemy.”
Damian pocketed the charm without comment. He knew the risk of being caught with Accord artifacts.
“Rest now,” he said. “I'll be back tomorrow.”
The walk to the forgotten temple gave him time to think, which was both blessing and curse. His body ached with Mrs. Kess's borrowed pain, but his mind was sharper somehow, focused by the familiar burn of overextended magic.
The temple wasn't supposed to exist. Officially, all Ashen Accord sites had been destroyed when the Time Exchange came to power. But Damian had found this one years ago, following the scent of old incense and the particular silence that clung to sacred places. The entrance was hidden beneath a collapsed clocktower, accessible only through a crack in the foundation that he navigated by touch and memory.
The passage was narrow, his coat catching on rough stone. But the temple beyond was different—the air changed, becoming still and peaceful in a way the rest of the city had forgotten. No time-bells here, no mechanical heartbeat of the Hourveins. Just silence and the faint whisper of ancient faith.
He felt his way along the carved walls, fingers reading the stone's history through touch. The carvings were smooth and deep, telling stories of figures with outstretched hands, gentle faces turned toward something beyond. Not the skeletal horrors of modern propaganda, but beings of mercy and transition.
Damian found his usual spot and settled into meditation, trying to quiet the borrowed pain still echoing in his bones. The temple's silence wrapped around him, and he could almost forget the weight of the city pressing down above.
The peace was shattered by small footsteps, careful and deliberate. Someone young, he could tell by the lightness of their tread, moving with the hesitant grace of a child trying not to be caught. Damian held perfectly still, listening as the intruder approached what he knew was the altar.
The whisper of paper against stone, so soft he almost missed it. Then the footsteps retreated, faster now, fading into the distance. Damian waited until the silence returned before investigating.
His fingers found a paper bird on the altar, folded from what felt like pages torn from a book. The paper was thin, almost translucent, and it carried the scent of tears and desperation. When he held it close, he could smell the faint trace of ink, words that had been forbidden to write, much less speak.
Damian's hands shook as he examined the delicate folds. He should report it. The Time Exchange paid well for information about Accord activity, and he could use the money. But the paper felt warm between his fingers, pulsing with the same desperate hope that brought patients to his door.
He found the eternal flame by its warmth against his face, holding the bird over the flickering heat. It caught quickly, burning with a clean smell that reminded him of winter mornings long ago. The ashes scattered on the air current, andfor a moment he could swear he felt something watching—a presence old as the city itself.
“Stories,” he whispered to the empty air. “That's all they are.”
But his hands lingered on the altar stone longer than necessary, feeling the smooth surface worn by countless offerings.
The walk back to his clinic took him through the worst parts of Veil Row, where the desperate sold their time in hours and minutes. He could hear the street dealers hawking temporal fixes, their voices sharp with artificial cheer. Time-debt workers shuffled past, their footsteps heavy with exhaustion, their breathing labored with the weight of years owed.
Damian's clinic was hidden in the basement of a dead clockmaker's shop, accessible only to those who knew the right combination of knocks. He felt his way down the familiar stairs, following the handrail worn smooth by years of use. The building had been abandoned for decades, but magic still hummed in its bones, a rhythm like gears and springs that made his teeth ache.
Corrin was waiting when he arrived—he could smell their particular blend of herbs and cynicism before he even opened the door. They were perched on his examining table, he could tell by the way the metal creaked under their weight.
“Let me guess,” Damian said, setting down his kit by sound and memory. “You tried to handle a soul-brand without gloves again.”
“It was an emergency,” Corrin replied, their voice carrying that particular dryness that meant they were in pain but trying to hide it. “Some of us don't have your martyrdom complex to keep us warm.”
