Chapter 14 · A Man Who Already Died

The guard knew his name.

Marcus hadn't said it. Hadn't written it anywhere. The gate had barely cracked wide enough for him to slip through, bronze mechanisms still grinding, and the woman in the patrol uniform was already looking at him like he'd crawled out of a mass grave.

"Marcus Hale," she said. Not a question.

He stopped. The needle was still hot in his pocket, wrapped in the scrap of cloth he'd torn from his shirt. The plaza behind the gate stretched out in pale stone and shadow, buildings rising in tight spirals around a central tower that looked like someone had carved it from a single piece of obsidian. Two moons burned overhead, one amber, one the color of old blood.

"That's me." He kept his hands visible. "How'd you—"

"You're on the list." She didn't move. Didn't draw a weapon. Didn't need to. Three more guards stepped out from the archways on either side, boots silent on the stone. They moved like they'd done this a hundred times. "Makers don't get past the gate unless we want them to."

Marcus felt the air go thin. "So you let me in."

"Someone did.