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“Give me the key.”
The creditor closed his silver-gloved fist around it and stepped away from my father’s bed.
Behind me, the respirator clicked.
Once.
Twice.
Then the blue rune at its center went dark.
“No.” I spun toward the machine. “No, no—Dad?”
My father’s chest stopped moving beneath the patched copper blanket.
The creditor didn’t even blink. He stood in the middle of Vey Arcane Repairs, dry charcoal coat buttoned to his throat while rain battered the windows behind him. Two Treasury officers blocked the door with shock-pikes resting on their shoulders.
“Miss Vey,” he said, “your family owes the city thirty-seven thousand, six hundred and twelve crowns.”
“Give me the key!”
“Your account is overdue.”
“My father is dying.”
“The Treasury has been notified.”
I crossed the shop in three strides. My hip clipped the workbench. Tools crashed across the metal floor.
“Hand it over.”
The creditor tilted his head. A black debt seal pulsed at his throat. “You’re in no position to make demands.”
“I’ll make them anyway.”
I reached for him.
One of the officers caught my wrist before my fingers touched the key. Blue current snapped along his pike.
“Try that again,” he warned.
“Get your hands off me.”
“Gladly. After you sign.”
The creditor lifted the brass key between two fingers. It was no bigger than my thumb. Pale blue light leaked through his glove.
Without it, the respirator had minutes. Maybe less.
“Sign what?” I snapped.
He glanced toward the back room. “You know what.”
My father’s eyes opened behind the glass respirator. They were dull with pain, but he understood the key was gone. His hand moved across the blanket, searching.
I tore my wrist free and ran to him.
“Dad. I’m here.”
His fingers were cold. Grease had stained the skin beneath his nails years ago and never left. He had once been the best arcane mechanic on the lower rings. Now he could barely close his hand around mine.
“Don’t worry,” I told him.
His brow tightened.
“I’ve got it.”
The lie scraped my throat raw.
The creditor’s boots clicked closer. “Your father borrowed from the Treasury for his medical treatment.”
“He borrowed for treatment after the East Lift collapse.”
“Correct.”
“The accident took his legs and damaged his lungs.”
“Also correct.”
“So stop acting like he bought a luxury.”
“He accepted the funds. He signed the repayment terms.”
“He can’t work.”
“He could have worked before he broke his spine.”
My grip tightened around Dad’s hand.
The creditor looked at the respirator. “The machine belongs to the city. The Treasury is reclaiming its property.”
“He isn’t property.”
“No. The respirator is.”
My father’s fingers twitched.
The creditor slipped a black envelope from inside his coat. Red wax sealed it shut. The mark stamped into the wax made my stomach drop—a crown split by a lightning bolt.
The Execution Bureau.
“Wait,” I said. “You said this was a collection visit.”
“It is.”
“That seal means execution authority.”
“It means the Treasury is offering an alternative.”
“You said there were no extensions.”
“There are no financial extensions.”
He broke the seal.
The paper inside was black and thin, covered in crimson runes.
My father pulled weakly at my hand.
I leaned close to his respirator. “Look at me.”
His eyes found mine.
“I can fix this,” I whispered.
His gaze dropped to the contract.
“I can fix anything. You taught me that, remember?”
The creditor unfolded the page. “Under emergency succession statutes, the Treasury may suspend a debt collection when the debtor’s immediate family enters a recognized contract with an individual condemned by the city.”
I stared at him.
“Say that again.”
“You marry the prisoner.”
For one second, nobody moved.
Then I laughed.
It came out sharp and ugly. “You want me to marry a condemned prisoner to cover a repair debt?”
“Not cover it. Delay enforcement for one year.”
“One year?”
“During the contract term, your father’s medical equipment remains under Treasury protection. Your home and business license remain untouched.”
“And when the year ends?”
“You repay the debt.”
“With what?” I waved at the empty shelves. “The shop’s already stripped. We sold the tools. We sold my mother’s ring. You took the copper stock last month.”
“Then you’ll find another way.”
I looked at the key. “And if I refuse?”
The creditor closed his fist around it.
The respirator clicked again.
My father’s eyes widened.
“Then the Treasury reclaims its property tonight,” the creditor said.
“You’re threatening to kill him.”
“I’m explaining the law.”
“Your law has a knife in its hand.”
“Most useful laws do.”
The officer holding the shock-pike gave a low chuckle.
I turned on him. “You think this is funny?”
He raised the weapon a fraction. “I think you should read the contract.”
The creditor laid it on the bed beside my father’s elbow. “You have three minutes.”
“Three minutes for a marriage?”
“You’re not choosing a husband. You’re choosing a breathing machine.”
My father shook his head.
“No,” he mouthed behind the glass.
I bent over him. “Don’t.”
His fingers squeezed mine with what little strength he had left.
“Dad, don’t make me watch you die.”
His eyes filled with tears.
The creditor checked a silver pocket watch. “Two minutes.”
I snatched up the contract.
The parchment burned my fingertips. Hidden writing crawled out of the fibers as the runes recognized my blood.
Temporary marital union.
Shared legal identity.
No refusal of spousal summons.
No disclosure of protected information.
One year of service to the condemned party.
One year of Treasury protection for the Vey household.
I flipped the page. “What does this mean?”
The creditor didn’t answer.
I pointed to the smaller script at the bottom. “This. Read it.”
“It says what it says.”
“Try using real words.”
His mouth tightened. “The bride accepts all consequences arising from the groom’s bloodline, powers, enemies, and execution status.”
My skin prickled.
“You’re asking me to become a target.”
“You already live in the lower rings. Everyone is a target.”
“Who is he?”
The two officers exchanged a look.
That was answer enough.
I faced the creditor. “Who?”
His voice dropped. “Kane Rhoan.”
The name seemed to suck the warmth from the shop.
I’d heard it in mechanic yards and back-alley taverns. Men said it quietly, like the city might punish them for speaking too loudly.
Kane Rhoan.
The Storm Butcher.
The Crownless Prince.
The prisoner who had survived execution three times.
“You expect me to marry him?”
“I expect you to choose between your dignity and your father’s lungs.”
My hand started shaking.
There it was. The trap. Clean, simple, and already closed around my throat.
I looked down at Dad.
He had spent eleven years teaching me how to repair machines. How to find the broken current. How to keep working when every part in front of me looked ruined.
Now he could barely breathe because the city wanted its money back.
I straightened. “Give me the key.”
“Sign first.”
“Give me the key, and I’ll sign.”
“That isn’t how leverage works.”
“Then I’ll break your hand and take it.”
The officer behind me barked a laugh. “You?”
I turned my head. “Come closer and find out.”
His smile vanished.
The creditor checked his watch again. “One minute.”
The respirator sputtered.
My father’s chest jerked beneath the blanket.
“Dad?” I grabbed the machine’s control housing. “Come on. Stay with me.”
The blue rune faded to a weak ember.
“Miss Vey,” the creditor said, “step away.”
“Shut up.”
“You have seconds.”
“I said shut up!”
I pressed both palms against the respirator.
The casing was cold. The runes inside were dead. I knew every valve and crystal in this machine. I’d repaired it for eleven years. I knew how its current moved, where it stuttered, where the old crystal chamber had begun to fracture.
There.
A severed current line.
I pushed energy into it.
Pain shot up both arms.
The machine rejected me.
“Get away from it,” one officer ordered.
“No.”
The creditor stepped forward. “You’re destroying Treasury property.”
“Then send me the bill.”
I pushed harder.
The current line twisted beneath my hands.
That couldn’t happen. Arcane pathways were etched into crystal and copper. They could be repaired or replaced. They couldn’t bend.
But this one bent.
Silver symbols lit beneath my palms.
They crawled over my skin like tiny threads of lightning.
The respirator roared.
My father sucked in a violent breath.
The creditor swore.
I jerked my hands away. “What did I do?”
The officer with the broken nose stared at my palms. “What in the Crown—”
The creditor’s face had finally changed.
He looked afraid.
Then he snapped his fingers. “Sign.”
The command cracked across the room.
I looked at the key in his fist. Then at Dad, breathing in short, painful pulls. Then at the silver marks fading across my hands.
My dignity had been sold years ago. Piece by piece. Furniture. Tools. My mother’s wedding ring.
The only thing left was my choice.
I grabbed the contract.
The parchment burned hotter this time.
“Nora,” Dad rasped through the respirator.
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head.
“I know.” I forced a smile. “You taught me to fix broken things.”
The creditor extended a finger toward the signature line. “Thumbprint.”
I pressed my thumb to the page.
The contract screamed.
Red fire burst through the shop. Runes wrapped around my wrist, tightened like chains, and vanished beneath my skin.
Far above us, Asterfall’s great bells began to ring.
One.
Two.
Three.
The creditor shoved the brass key into the respirator.
The machine steadied.
Dad’s breathing became deeper. Still rough, but alive.
I dropped beside him, shaking so hard my teeth clicked together.
The contract slid from my hand and landed open on the floor.
The final lines burned bright.
Bride: Nora Vey.
Groom: Kane Rhoan.
The creditor picked up the parchment. “Your wedding ceremony begins in twenty minutes.”
I stared at him. “You’re taking me to the Execution Bureau?”
“To the prison.”
“Does Kane Rhoan even know about this?”
The creditor’s eyes went cold. “He knows you’re coming.”
That answer hit harder than the contract.
“Why?”
He tucked the parchment inside his coat.
“Before you meet your husband, there’s one thing you need to know. Kane Rhoan isn’t—”