THIRTY-FIVE
IVALYS
Gror finds me three hours later.
I’m sitting on a broken pillar at the edge of the vault, catching my breath while Rathok coordinates with the healers. He’s good at that—giving orders, organizing chaos, directing resources. Two centuries of enforcement taught him how to manage crises. He’s just using those skills for something other than collection now.
My brother approaches slowly. He’s still healing—the contract-scars visible on his arms, his face drawn with exhaustion—but he’s walking. Moving under his own power. The healers said he should stay in bed, but Gror has never been good at following orders.
“Ivy.” He settles on the pillar next to me. Studies the vault—the truth-speakers being guided toward the surface, the alcoves now empty and dark, the evidence of the Ledger Master’s hoarding laid bare. “This is...”
“Overwhelming?” I offer.
“I was going to say ‘a lot.’ But overwhelming works.” He’s quiet for a moment. Watching. “They’re all truth-speakers?”
“Dozens of them. Captured over three centuries. Some were colleagues of Mom’s.” The thought still makes my chest tight.My mother had allies, friends, fellow truth-speakers who were fighting the same fight. The Ledger Master took them all. Froze them. Kept them as trophies.
Gror glances toward Rathok. “Him. Really.”
“Really.”
“He tried to kill me. When I was—” He gestures vaguely. “When I was whatever I was.”
“He tried to stop you from killing me.” I don’t soften the words. “There’s a difference. And he’s not who he was. Neither am I.” I look at my palm—the sigil glowing softly, the faded scars of the contract that bound me. “None of us are.”
Gror is quiet for a long moment. Processing. I let him. This is a lot to take in, even without the trauma of being transformed into a contract-creature and forced to attack his own sister.
“What happens now?” he asks finally.
I’ve been asking myself the same question. Looking at these truth-speakers—confused, scared, waking into a world that’s moved on without them. Looking at Gravebind—a city without its master, a power vacuum waiting to be filled. Looking at myself—a woman who spent fifteen years hiding, pretending to be ordinary, denying what she was.
“I don’t know.” The honesty feels good. Freeing. “But I’m done running. Done hiding.” I look at Rathok, standing among the freed prisoners. Some of them still flinch when they see him. Others have started to understand—to see the way the healers defer to him, the way he moves to help without being asked. “Mom spent her whole life protecting us from what we are. Hiding us. Making us small so the Ledger Master wouldn’t notice.”
I lift my hand. Watch the sigil pulse.
“I think it’s time to stop hiding and start fighting.”
“Fighting what?”
“Whatever comes next.” I stand. Feel the exhaustion in my bones, the emptiness where my reserves used to be. But beneath the tiredness—something else. Something that feels like purpose. “Other contract lords will try to claim Gravebind. And these truth-speakers—” I gesture at the vault. “They need guidance. Protection. Someone to help them understand what they are and what they can do.”
“And that someone is you?”
“I don’t see anyone else volunteering.” The words come out sharper than I intended. I soften them with a tired smile. “I didn’t ask for this, Gror. Didn’t want it. But I’m here, and they need me, and I’ve never been able to walk away from people who need help.”
He stands too. Takes my hand—the unmarked one—and holds it the way he used to when we were children. When I was the big sister and he was the little brother who needed protecting.
“I can’t speak truth. Can’t rewrite contracts. But I can stand with you. Learn what you need me to learn. Be whatever you need me to be.”
“Gror—”
“You’ve been protecting me my whole life, Ivy. Let me return the favor.” He squeezes my hand. “We’re family. That means something.”
Family. The word lands somewhere deep—a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with my gift. I’ve spent so long being the protector, the provider, the one who carries everything alone. The idea of having someone choose to share that weight, not because of contract or obligation but because they want to?—
I pull him into a hug. Feel his arms wrap around me, careful of my wounds, gentle in a way that reminds me of the boy he used to be.
“Thank you.” I whisper it against his shoulder. “For not giving up on me. On us.”
“Never.” He pulls back. Manages a smile despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “Now go. Your truth-speakers are waiting.”
