I press the cloth to the first gash.
His jaw locks. Muscle bunches beneath skin. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. Just sits there, utterly still, while I clean wounds that would have most people screaming.
The quiet between us grows heavy. Weighted with things neither of us is saying.
I work methodically. Clean, assess, clean again. The gashes are deep but straight—easier to close than jagged wounds. The thread I found is coarse, meant for leather repair, but it’ll hold better than nothing.
“Needle next.” I thread it with hands that want to shake and refuse to let them. “Hold still.”
The first stitch makes his breath hitch. Just barely. A sound most people would miss.
I don’t miss it.
“Tell me about contract magic.” The words come out before I plan them—a distraction, for him or for me. “How it really works. Not the simplified version you gave me before.”
I pull another stitch through, feel him absorb the pain without showing it.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” Another stitch. “My mother was a truth-speaker. She could rewrite contracts by speaking truth over them. But I don’t understand how.”
“The Ledger isn’t stone.” His voice has gone strained. From the pain, or from something else. “It’s ink. Living ink, bound by the shadow-magic that flooded this land when the Veil shattered. Every contract in Gravebind connects to that original power—every debt, every obligation, every promise made in blood.”
I tie off a stitch. Start the next one.
Another stitch. He doesn’t react.
“My brother’s contract, you told me the scribe who wrote it worked for the Ledger Master. So it’s probably fraudulent.” I tie off another stitch, start the next. “If I speak that truth, what happens?”
He shifts slightly, muscle flexing beneath my hands.
“The debt dies. The claim on your brother transfers to its rightful owner.” His breath comes harsher now. Whether from the stitching or the implications. “The Ledger Master. He designed the fraud. He owns the scribe. The debt becomes his.”
“And what happens to someone when they owe a debt they can’t pay?”
His silence is answer enough.
I finish the last stitch. Tie it off. Reach for the bandages.
My hands are steadier than they should be. The work has centered me somehow—given me something physical to focus on while my mind processes everything he’s said.
I wrap bandages around his chest, careful to keep the pressure even. I feel his pulse beneath my palm—faster than it should be, hotter than human blood. The sigil on my hand pulses in response, warmth spreading up my arm.
