Dozens of them, converging from all sides, their empty faces suddenly animated with purpose. I have seconds. Less than seconds.
I run.
Not toward the entrance—they’d catch me before I reached it. Toward the place where Rathok fell. The seam in the floor where the contracts sealed themselves, still faintly visible if you know where to look.
The enforcers converge. Hands reach for me—grasping, grabbing. I twist free, duck under arms, use my smaller size to slip through gaps that would stop anyone larger. Years of moving through Gravebind’s crowded streets finally serve a purpose.
The seam is ahead. Ten feet. Five.
An enforcer catches my arm. I spin, plant my sigil-marked palm against his chest, and speak: “You didn’t choose this.”
The contracts binding him flare. Smoke rises from his uniform. He releases me with a cry of shock, staring at his smoking chest.
I reach the seam.
The mark glows. I slam my hand against the polished bone floor, channel my gift into one desperate truth: “This floor was opened. It can open again.”
The contracts unravel.
Not as smoothly as before—my truth-speaking isn’t controlled, isn’t refined—but the seam tears open, the pit yawning beneath me, darkness swallowing the light.
I jump.
The Ledger Master’s scream follows me down—ink-stained words of fury and fear, centuries of composure finally shattered. The enforcers’ hands grasp at empty air where I stood. And then there’s only falling?—
Cold air rushing past.
The smell of old paper and voided debts.
The distant sound of my own heartbeat, counting down the seconds until impact.
Falling into the Vault.
Falling toward Rathok.
Falling toward the founding contract that will end this nightmare—or end me.
