When a new day started in Varinhold, rich families counted their deals and poor folks counted their collars. Magic houses loaned gentle rain, rented safe charms, and patched mistakes with glowing promises. Everyone else paid with coins, favors, or years. Bond collars never forgot a debt. When House Eldrin bought Elara, they wrote his name beside silver bars and cows, then locked a bronze band around his throat. The collar hummed like a second heartbeat whenever a wizard looked at him.
Elara lived in the workshop hall. Tonight the hall smelled of wet stone and sharp metal. Shelves held half-made cages. Apprentices in blue-trimmed robes practiced sparks. Bonded helpers scrubbed burn marks from the benches. Elara's job was to use a copper brush and clean magic marks in small circles. Mara, who trained the servants, had told him one rule: move fast, stay small, listen.
The plan lasted two breaths. Kelm Eldrin walked in. He lifted his wand and a thin light whipped across Elara's shoulder. The heat raised blisters and burned a hole in the workbench. Elara had almost learned the warning hiss before each strike. Almost. Pain flashed and he held in a cry. His hands kept moving because stopping would be worse.
A lazy voice sounded behind him. "You flinched late again."
Elara answered, "I will react sooner next time." His voice came out dry. Too dry. The collar snapped his spine with a jolt and copper taste flooded his mouth.
Kelm leaned over the table and smeared the chalk guide the head crafter had drawn earlier. He wore a tipped smirk, the kind nobles wore when they never faced a consequence. "Fourteen days until the skill test," he said. "If you ruin the props, Father hangs me on the rain clock. Less flinching." He pushed his goggles up. His eyes were red. Maybe smoke, maybe study, maybe no sleep.
Elara waited before answering. "Think of me as your shield."
"That's right." Kelm snapped his fingers. Dry wind swept across the bench and finished the cleaning. "Don't leave scratches," he said, then walked away without looking back. The burn on Elara's shoulder throbbed.
When the hall emptied, Elara flexed stiff fingers. Sticky dust shook from his sleeves. The magic mark in front of him was a simple curl with three holding cuts. He memorized it and tucked it away with other scraps he had spotted—the drying time on certain inks, the wards that hummed louder than they should. He told himself that if he gathered enough scraps, a pattern would appear. That lie kept him working each night.
He carried a slop bucket up the servants' stairs. Halfway up, Old Mara blocked the landing with folded uniforms stacked in her arms.
"Stand still," she said. Before he could answer she tugged his collar aside and saw the burn. "Kelm again?"
"He is practicing combat manners," Elara said. He tried to joke and only sounded tired.
Mara clicked her tongue. "I told you to stay at the outer tables."
"They moved me in," Elara said. "Closer to the real spells."
"Closer to trouble." She pulled a salve pot from her pocket, dabbed cool balm on the blister, and tied a cloth over it. "Hear the census rumor?"
"Which one? Bread tax or the forced draft?" he asked. He leaned in; Mara's rumors were rarely wrong.
"New collars coming from Eastwharf. They say the new batch hears lies through a heartbeat." She shoved the uniforms into his arms. "Keep your truth quiet until you can buy it back."
He nodded and walked toward the laundry. Eldrin manor hummed with trapped spells. Light that never dimmed, heat that never cooled, silver glass eyes that watched without blinking. The collar turned all of it into a steady buzz along his neck. Some nights the buzz hurt more than the lash.
The kitchen steamed like a bathhouse. Varinhold cooks used whatever the guilds sold cheap that week. Tonight there was root mash and bruised squash. Fenn worked the bread table. He rolled his sleeves above old scars and let heat runes burn his arms while he pulled loaves from glowing racks.
"You're limping," Fenn said without looking up.
"Just learning," Elara said. He slid between barrels and stole a heel of bread. "Any good rumors left for me?"
"Pask has one." Fenn jerked his chin toward the scullery. "She said she wouldn't wait, but she's still in there stomping holes in the floor."
Pask paced beside a chalk map on the stones. The map showed the manor, the city wall, the river bend, and the broken ridge to the north.
"Vault opened in the spine mines," she said as he walked in. "Storm fried a ward grid the guilds argued about for twenty years. They'll argue another day. That gives us—"
"Three nights?" Elara guessed.
"Less. One day if the Silvershear Guild sobers up fast." Pask flipped a small key and caught it. "Outer gate. If you die, can I have your boots?"
Elara studied the map. The vault road ran past the patrol posts and the salt market. He had never gone that far. The Eldrin locked every chance before he reached it. "If I die, I want revenge, not a thief on my feet."
"I can do both," Pask said, pressing the key into his palm. "Also Mara says the collar rumor is false. Keep yours calm anyway."
Fenn walked over with a jar. "Pickled plum rind. Road food."
"Contraband," Elara said.
"So is leaving," Fenn replied. "Besides, you hate plums. Less chance you'll eat it."
Elara didn't hate plums. He hated that they reminded him of an aunt who bought his silence with sweets during debt talks. He took the jar anyway.
Night settled. Wards along the manor walls dropped to a low hum. Mara led breathing drills in the dorm. Elara lay on his cot, eyes closed, not following. Instead he whispered through the house list—bread crew, laundry crew, stable crew. People were easier to count than marks. People owed favors. People could be traded. He swore he would never become the kind who traded people. He also swore he would live long enough to choose.
"If you're going, go now," Fenn whispered from the next cot. "I told everyone you've got a cough. Don't ruin the story by coughing wrong."
Elara pushed up on one elbow. Fenn handed him a stub of charcoal wrapped in cloth.
"For marking walls," Fenn said. "Or drawing if the vault gets dull."
Elara grinned even though his chest stayed tight. "If there are death ledgers, I'll bring you one."
He timed his steps with the creaking beams overhead and the slow beat of the wards. The key Pask had lifted turned with a stubborn click. Elara waited for alarms. None came. Rain soaked his borrowed cloak. The cobbles shone black in the lamp glow.
Outside Eldrin land, Varinhold smelled different. Fish oil, chimney smoke, river mud, the sharp bite of weather mages balancing storms over the docks. Elara moved through alleys, counting lamp pools like players count squares in a street game. Dockworkers argued over stamp fees. A preacher promised salvation if contracts were signed clean. No one looked twice at a thin boy with a collar and a cloak.
The spine mines sat beyond the old market. The city wall cracked around a stone road that climbed north. Lightning had shattered the ward posts. Bits of magic glass glittered in the ditch. Elara crouched and pocketed one. Etched glass still held charge. Someone in the manor would trade for it.
"You lost?" a rough but friendly voice asked.
Elara turned with his lamp raised. A broad man in a patched coat watched him. An iron token hung from his belt. A free warden. Not guild, not house.
"Looking at the damage," Elara said. "It's strange and pretty."
The warden nodded at the collar. "Pretty and lethal. You got leave to stand here?"
"No," Elara said. "But the people who own me aren't here. The vault is."
The warden's mouth twitched. "Fair. I'll sell you advice instead of hauling you back. When the ledger engine names a price, haggle. Don't give the first thing it asks for."
"You've gone inside?"
"Twice." He tapped the token. "It took my thumbprint once. Took my middle name the second time. I missed the name more."
Elara bowed a little. "Thank you."
"Kid, come back alive so I can complain at you later," the warden said.
The vault mouth gaped in the hillside like a cracked tooth. Damp air blew out, smelling of ink and stone. Elara stepped inside.
The tunnel sloped downward in slow circles. The collar tightened with each step. Magic pressed against his skin and filled his lungs until breathing felt like wading through thick water. He almost turned back. Stubbornness held him steady. He marked the walls with charcoal lines, one quick slash at a time.
The tunnel opened into a room that looked like the inside of a clock. Brass arms reached from a central pillar. Each arm held an ink pen. The pens wrote glowing letters in the air. The letters sank into invisible books. Metal scribes rolled along rails and stamped seals on nothing he could see. The room sounded like paper whispers and slow breathing.
A voice buzzed through his teeth. "Visitor recorded. State the debt you wish to carry."
Elara had saved bold lines to say, but they felt small in front of the machine. "I want teaching," he said. "Basic glyph weaving. Enough to stop cleaning tools and start using them."
"Payment must match the request," the voice answered. "Choices: five years taken from the end of life, three memories taken now, or one binding truth with no end date."
Elara remembered the warden's warning. "Do you take counter deals?"
"Counter deals allowed."
Elara took a breath. "Two years at death, one memory now, and one binding truth. Split the cost."
"Denied. Offer too low. New choices: give up four senses, give up one truth, or give up the color red."
Elara blinked. "The color red?"
"Gone forever. Red will show as grey. Choose."
He had expected pain, not the loss of a color. His mother's bakery walls had been red. He swallowed hard. "One truth, one memory, one sense. Don't take sight."
"Name the sense."
Sight, touch, and hearing had to stay. Smell tied to memory. Taste? He could live with bland food. "Take sweetness," he said quickly. "Leave bitter, sour, salt, and spice."
"Accepted. Speak your truth."
This part scared him more than losing sugar. Truth meant power. "House Eldrin keeps an illegal record of collar overrides in the north library," he said. If the vault used that truth later, let it cut the Eldrin too.
"Truth noted. Choose the memory."
Pictures flickered around him: warm bread steam, his aunt's off-key whistle, the winter his father carved a toy boat. Lines of light reached toward his chest.
Elara gripped the jar of plums. "Take the smell of yeast from the bakery," he said. "I keep the rest."
Warmth unwound from his chest. His stomach lurched. For a breath he forgot how to breathe. Then the feeling snapped away. The brass arms kept moving.
"Payment received," the vault said. A slate slid from a slot in the floor. Fine symbols and notes filled its face. "Lesson four-one-seven. Basic weave theory without Eldrin locks. Bound to you. Forced removal causes seizure."
"Understood," Elara whispered. He felt hollow, like someone had scooped out his ribs. He lifted the jar to his nose. No scent. No sweetness. Only empty brine.
Another question pushed at him. "If I fail the truth I owe?"
"Your speech will answer any question with honest words until the debt is paid," the vault said. "Warning given." The brass arms turned back to their writing. He was finished.
Elara climbed the tunnel. His fingers traced each charcoal mark like prayer beads. When he reached open air, his legs shook. The warden still leaned against a broken wardstone, chewing a bitter stem.
"You look pale," the warden said. "Did you get what you wanted?"
Elara held up the slate. "Depends how we define wanted." His voice cracked. Before the warden could reply, the truth binding yanked a new line free: "House Eldrin keeps an illegal record of collar overrides in the north library."
The warden's eyebrows jumped. "Truth bind already?"
Elara clapped his hand over his mouth. It didn't help. "There's a loose board in the servants' dorm," he blurted. "Second row from the door."
"Kid, I don't need your hidden stuff," the warden said. He swore. "Go home. Don't talk unless someone forces you. Truth binds fade after three moons or when you meet them. If you threw a crime into the air, someone may chase it."
"Great," Elara muttered. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood—metallic, sharp. At least that taste remained.
Rain soaked the road back to the manor. Twice Elara ducked patrol lamps. Once he nearly slid under a wagon. By the time he slipped through the outer gate, dawn blurred the skyline. The kitchen ovens were already baking. He couldn't smell the bread. The emptiness hurt more than the burn on his shoulder. He stood in the doorway too long.
"Move," Mara called. She paused when she saw his face. "You look grey. Fever?"
"Bad dream," Elara said. It was close enough to truth. The collar stayed quiet. Mara shoved a broom into his hands. "Gallery floors. Council meets at noon."
He hid the slate beneath his cot. Whenever footsteps faded, he pulled it out. The symbols shifted to match his gaze. Notes floated over the lines: anchor your breath in the belly; copying by rote breaks under pressure. He tried the first exercise. Three failures. On the fourth try a spark leaped between his fingers and burned his palm. He dropped the slate and hissed. First lesson, first burn.
Later he swept the upper gallery. Kelm leaned against the window frame in fresh robes, practicing a serious face.
"Council wants the east windows spotless," Kelm said. "Inspector comes to check the new harbor wards. If they fail us, Father blames me, then I come back here with more sparks."
Elara said, "Try asking instead of threatening."
Kelm's eyes flicked to the bandage on Elara's shoulder. His swagger slipped. "Did I do that?"
"Yes," Elara said. The binding yanked the word free. He tried to lie to soften it, but the collar warmed in warning.
Kelm let out a slow breath. "I didn't realize. You should have told me."
"Next time I'll schedule our duel," Elara said. His throat hurt. "Go study."
"I am studying," Kelm muttered. He rubbed his own bare collarbone. "They're testing structure balance. Do you know how dull that is?"
Elara couldn't hide his grin. "Yes. I know exactly how dull it is."
Kelm frowned. "How would you—"
"Because," Elara said, helpless, "House Eldrin hides the instructor notes in the north library behind the ledger cabinet."
Kelm stared. "Why tell me?"
Elara's teeth clicked. "Because I made a very bad deal."
For the first time since they met, Kelm looked shaken. "You should see a healer."
"Servants don't get healers," Elara snapped. "We get broom closets."
Kelm opened his mouth, closed it, and walked away. Maybe to steal the notes. Maybe to report Elara. Problem for later.
When Elara returned to the dorm, Fenn sat on his cot with two cups of broth.
"You look terrible," Fenn said.
"I can't taste sweetness anymore," Elara answered on purpose. The binding stayed still; that truth didn't pay the debt. "I'm also blurting secrets. Don't ask me anything important."
Fenn's eyebrows climbed. "Good to know. On a scale of one to doomed?"
"Four, maybe five," Elara said. "I brought back a teaching slate. It bites."
Fenn winced. "Anything useful on it?"
Elara raised his bandaged palm. "We'll see when the blister heals." He paused, then spoke softly. "I can't smell the bread anymore."
Fenn's voice softened. "That's cruel."
"I paid for it," Elara said. Saying it out loud made the loss solid. A hollow ache grew behind his ribs. For the first time since the vault, he let himself feel it. No vow, no speech. Just a tired boy missing the ghost of yeast and sugar.
He lay back on his cot. The slate under the floorboard hummed. The collar throbbed in time with his pulse. Rain tapped the shutters. The truth bind coiled like a sleeping snake, waiting. Elara knew he had to find a traitor in a house that burned through servants like lamp oil. He had to hold his tongue until the debt ended. He had to do it without sweetness.
Maybe this was clever. Maybe it was foolish. Morning still came. When the bell rang, Elara stood, picked up his broom, and walked back into the polished halls owned by people who held his name.
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End of Chapter One