L I R A

By the time the glow fades from the ledger’s page, everyone knows what it means. No one says it out loud, but we all move anyway, splitting off, chasing whatever scraps of defense we can build before the next toll comes. Which is how I end up in Silas Crowe’s forge, watching sparks spit against the dark.

Silas lifts his visor when I step inside, soot streaks running down his cheekbones. He looks like the kind of boy teachers warn you about. Lazy grin, scuffed boots, reputation in tatters, but everyone swears he can bend steel into shapes no instructor bothers to teach. If Noor’s sketch can trap a toll, Silas is reckless enough to press it into metal for us.

“You sure you want this stamped, Vesper?” he calls over the grind.

“Everything’s in trouble,” I shoot back. “Stamp it anyway.”

The press slams down, leaving a steel crescent crooked enough to snag a toll, maybe strong enough to hold.

I step forward, but Callen beats me there, moving like the shadows signed him in. He fits the crescent into the brass ring without hesitation. The curve clicks into place with a metallic sigh.

“You didn’t check the heat,” Ezra snaps from the doorway.

Callen doesn’t look up. “It was cool.”

“You didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t need to.”

The tension hums hotter than the forge. I open my mouth to break it..

“I’ll run.”

Deacon Holt stands in the doorway, track jacket unzipped, hair damp from practice. He looks steady, too steady, like he’s been waiting his whole life to say this.

Ezra bristles instantly. “No. Absolutely not.”

Deacon steps in, eyes locking on me. “You said the bell follows resonance. It wants a moving target. I can make it chase me.”

“It’s not that simple. If it realizes we’re trying to trick it..”

“It already knows.” He shrugs, casual as a warm-up lap. “What it doesn’t expect is me.”

Callen studies him, unreadable. “Running won’t erase a debt. But you might make it miss.”

Deacon nods once. “Then I’ll give it something to miss.”

Ezra moves closer, his hand hovering near my arm like he wants to anchor me. His voice is sharp, cracking at the edges. “Say no, Lira. Tell him we’re not doing this.”

Everyone is watching me. The forge is loud, but my heartbeat is louder. And for one reckless second.
I don’t say no.

The counter-fang sits on the bench, wires spilling off it like veins. Noor’s sketch is pinned beneath, smudged from Silas’s glove.

I hover too close, but Callen’s already nearer, steady as if it’s his job to catch me if I fall.

Ezra notices. Of course he notices.

He leans against the doorframe, jaw tight, eyes ticking every time Callen shifts toward me.

“We don’t even know if this thing will hold,” Ezra says finally. “And you’re just… testing it on her?”

Callen doesn’t rise to it. He just steadies the ring, his fingers brushing close to mine. “She’s the one the bell watches.”

I should move away. I don’t.

Ezra pushes off the wall, suddenly at my other side, warm and solid, bracketing me between them.

“Then we test it without her,” he says firmly. “We find another way. I won’t risk her.”

The words hang there, heavier than the press.

Silas glances between us, eyebrows raised. “Well. This is cozy.”

I glare at him, but it doesn’t erase the truth: Ezra is too close, Callen is already close, and me caught between.

Deacon clears his throat, jogging in place, restless energy fizzing. “If the bell’s going to toll, it won’t care who’s standing where. It’ll care who runs. That’s still me.”

Ezra rounds on him, grateful for the distraction. “It’s not you. You’re not..”

“Disposable?” Deacon snaps, louder than anyone expects. “I didn’t say that. But I’m fast. Faster than the bell expects. You want to waste time glaring at Callen, or you want me to prove it?”

The air fractures. Ezra looks ready to break something or someone. Callen doesn’t move, but I feel his stare on me, steady as ever, waiting to see which storm I’ll choose.

And I can’t choose. Not yet.

Deacon muttered his mom kept candles in threes on their mantle, though she claimed it was ‘heritage décor.’ Funny how every adult had a different excuse for the same habits.

Silas drops his visor, sparks flaring bright. He feeds the steel crescent into the press one more time. The clang makes my teeth ache.

“Perfect,” he mutters. “Or a perfect disaster.”

He tosses the piece onto the bench. Callen catches it, setting it down gently, as if the steel could bruise.

The counter-fang looks harmless, thin, curved, with a ridge along its spine. But the air feels heavy, like the bell already knows we’re trying to cheat.

Deacon edges closer. “So this little sliver is supposed to throw the bell off?”

“Not throw it off,” Silas says, wiping soot across his cheek. “Bend it. Shove the wheel sideways. Maybe enough.”

Ezra picks up the piece, turning it in the forge light. The steel hums faintly against his skin. He frowns. “It feels unstable.”

“It’s supposed to,” Callen says. “The bell’s exact. This makes it hesitate.”

Ezra doesn’t like that answer, but doesn’t argue.

Alma and Vio drift in, their pitch pipe swinging between them. They look exhausted, cheeks hollow, like the last toll already shaved something off them. Alma sets the pipe on the bench.

“We can hold a note as long as it takes,” she says, voice firm despite her trembling hands.

Vio nods, but her eyes keep darting to the counter-fang. “If it bends the toll sideways, we can’t drop the pitch. Not even for a breath.”

Ezra rounds on them. “You’re not bait.”

“We’re not,” Alma says. “We’re the anchor.”

Silas snorts. “So that leaves our track star as the rabbit, huh?”

Deacon straightens. “That’s me.”

The room tilts then, like the air has been pulled toward him. Everyone knows he means it. Everyone knows what it could cost.

And the worst part? The bell is already listening.

The forge quiets, unnaturally. Even the grinder’s hum dies.

Fog crawls up the windows until only frost shapes remain.

“It’s here,” Callen says, eyes fixed on the door.

The twins grip the pitch pipe. Deacon bounces on his feet. “Tell me when to run.”

“You’ll know,” Silas mutters, his hand hovering over the counter-fang.

Then the air changes.

The bell doesn’t toll out loud, it resonates through bone, through teeth. My chest seizes. Everyone jerks, clutching ribs, as the invisible sound splits us open from the inside.

The twins snap into harmony, voices sharp and desperate. The counter-fang hums back, crooked and off-key. The pressure veers sideways.

For one impossible second, I think it’s working. The fog stutters, folding wrong.

Then the crows arrive.

They slam against the windows in a flurry of wings, tapping in threes. Tink. Tink. Tink.

The counter-fang squeals, fractures splintering. Silas curses, fumbling to brace it. “Hold..!”

The bell hits again. Focused. Targeted.

Something thin and bright falls through the air like a coin. It clatters onto the bench between Alma and Vio.

A strip.

Frost veins the edges. Letters gouge deep, still smoking.

VIO.

“No,” Alma chokes, shoving forward.

Vio stumbles back, face gone white. “It’s me..”

“It should’ve been me,” Alma snaps, reaching for the strip.

I lunge first. Cold detonates up my arm, searing bone-deep. The strip burns like it wants to fuse to my skin.

The bell inhales. The air quakes.

One word etches itself in frost across the bench, jagged and final:

DUE / 1.