Old Haru was carried away on a wooden door, still breathing, still alive. The one who had collapsed after him was dragged back, limbs slack, eyes unfocused. No one said his name. That, more than anything, told me he would not be remembered.
The elders gathered in a half-circle around me, careful not to step too close. Their shadows stretched long in the morning light, cutting across the stone like fractures.
"It worked," one of them said.
Not to me. To the others.
A murmur followed—relief, awe, fear braided together. Someone laughed, sharp and short, as if the sound might shatter if held too long.
I stood there, hands still stained with something I could not wash away. My chest felt hollowed out, as though part of me had been scooped clean and replaced with pressure. Not pain. Not yet. Something tighter. Colder.
"Speak," the lead elder said. "What did you feel?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Behind my eyes, the presence shifted—not intruding, not urging. Simply aligning. Like a weight settling into the exact center of balance.
The charm redistributed loss,
it observed, without tone.
This was always its purpose.
I swallowed.
"They said healing would cost me," I said finally. "They didn't say who would pay."
The elders exchanged glances.
"That is how balance works," another said. "The calamity does not vanish. It passes through."
Passes through.
As if I were a doorway.
They brought me water. I drank it because my hands were shaking too badly to refuse. The water tasted wrong—flat, distant. When I touched my tongue with my teeth, I barely felt it.
I did not say that.
They asked me to stand again. I did. My knees buckled halfway up, but something tightened inside my spine, held me upright. The runes beneath my skin pulsed faintly, responding to intention rather than command.
A woman pushed forward through the crowd, her face red, eyes wide.
"My son," she said. "He fell sick last night. The fever—"
One of the elders raised a hand to stop her. Not because he disagreed. Because he wanted control.
"We will decide when," he said. Then, to me: "You need rest."
Rest.
As if this were exhaustion.
They escorted me away from the square, two steps behind, never beside. Children stared. Some bowed their heads the way they did during prayers. Others hid behind doorframes, peeking out as though I might look back and choose them next.
I did not look back.
Inside the longhouse, they sat me on a reed mat and began arguing in low voices. I listened without seeming to.
"The markings are deeper than expected."
"He didn't scream."
"The charm adapted."
"We followed the texts exactly."
That last one was spoken defensively.
I closed my eyes.
The presence did not grow louder. It did not push. It simply existed, perfectly synchronized with my breathing, as though it had always been there and I had only just noticed.
You are stabilizing,
it said.
Pain receptors are being deprioritized.
"What are you?" I thought.
There was a pause—not hesitation, but calculation.
I am the remainder,
it answered.
What was not accounted for.
My fingers curled into the mat.
Outside, someone screamed. A short sound. Cut off.
The arguing stopped.
One of the elders rushed out. Another followed. Then another.
I was left alone.
Minutes passed. Or seconds. Time felt… smoothed. Less jagged.
When the door opened again, they came in quietly.
The elder who had carved the final symbol would not meet my eyes.
"The second man is dead," he said.
I nodded.
That seemed to unsettle them more than denial would have.
"We need to understand the limits," another elder said. "If the cost is transferable, then—"
"Then he can save us," someone else finished.
Save us.
The words pressed in on me, heavy and familiar.
They did not ask if I wanted to.
They began discussing rotations. Thresholds. Whether age or strength mattered. How often the charm could be stressed before it broke—or before I did.
I realized then that I was no longer the reason they feared calamity.
I was the reason they could ignore it.
They will test you,
the remainder observed.
This is rational.
My stomach tightened.
"And if I refuse?" I asked aloud.
The room went still.
The elder's jaw clenched. "You wouldn't."
Not because I couldn't.
Because the village would not survive my refusal.
I understood. Fully. Cleanly.
This was the true shape of the curse. Not the runes. Not the presence. Not even the deaths.
It was this:
I would be blamed whether I acted or not.
Outside, the woman with the sick child began screaming again.
The elders turned toward me.
Waiting.
And deep within my chest, where consequence had learned to think, something settled—patient, precise, unmoved.
Choice has been identified,
it said.
Outcome variance acceptable.
I stood.