"Move your feet or I’ll leave them behind."
Riven didn't pull Mara—he dragged her. His hand was a vice around her wrist, hauling her through the smog-choked alleys of the Lower Ward. Behind them, the rhythmic smash of Council boots echoed off damp stone.
The air tasted like ozone and burnt copper. Every time Mara stumbled, the living contract in her veins pulsed a sickening, hot gold. It sent a jolt of borrowed adrenaline straight into her heart, making her chest tighten.
"You're the one who got us labeled as fugitives!" Mara yelled, her boots skidding on a patch of oil. "Maybe if you didn't act like the Council's golden boy, we wouldn't be running for our lives!"
Riven stopped dead.
He spun, slamming her back against a soot-stained brick wall. The impact knocked the wind out of her, but he didn't let go. He leaned in, his chest inches from hers, his breath hot against her cheek. He smelled of rain, old leather, and something dangerous—like a storm about to break.
"Listen to me, you little thief," he growled, the sound vibrating in his chest. "I was the one hunting you. I had the badge. Now, because of that... *thing* inside you, the Council thinks I’ve turned."
He pressed closer, pinning her with sheer physical weight.
"They aren't coming to arrest us," he whispered. "They're coming to erase me."
Mara glared up at him. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned forward, her lips almost brushing his ear.
"And now I'm your only legal guardian," she whispered, a smirk tugging at her mouth. "Which means you do what I say, or I stop running and let them find you. How does it feel, Holt? To be the one on the leash?"
His grip tightened. For a second, Mara thought he might actually choke her. His eyes searched hers, dark and turbulent, scanning for a crack in her bravado. Then, his gaze dropped to her throat, where the gold veins of the contract glowed faintly under the skin.
"You think this is a game," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "The Council doesn't just kill traitors. They take everything. Your name, your face, every memory of who you were. You'll be a blank slate."
"I've already lost everything," Mara snapped, shoving his chest. It was like pushing a mountain. "My brother was wiped by the same people you work for. Now get moving. I know a place to hide the signal."
He let her go, but his fingers lingered on her wrist—a slow, deliberate pressure that made her skin prickle.
"Fine. Lead the way. But if this is a trap, I'm not saving you twice."
They dove into the Sinks, a labyrinth of rusted pipes and dripping ceilings where the Council's reach grew thin. As they crossed a narrow catwalk over a steaming vent, Riven suddenly faltered.
He gripped the railing, knuckles white. His eyes glazed over. He swayed, balance gone.
"What is it?" Mara stepped closer, her palm hovering just above his shoulder. "Are you hurt?"
"Get away from me," he hissed. He sounded lost. "I... I can't remember the name of the street we just left."
Mara froze. "What?"
"The contract," Riven whispered, his voice strained. "Every time I shield us... every time it binds us... it takes something. A piece of me. I just lost the name of the Third District. It's just... gone."
Mara looked at him and saw it: genuine fear. He wasn't just losing a name. He was disappearing. And the more she relied on him, the faster he vanished.
"I can't let that happen," she said softly.
"You don't have a choice," Riven snapped, recovering his composure and stepping away. "Either we break this thing, or I forget who I am before we even reach the Sinks."
"Then we find the Archivist. Soren Pike."
"Pike is a coward," Riven spat. "He'll sell us for a single coin."
"He'll sell us if he doesn't have something better to trade," Mara countered. "And I have the contract."
They reached a heavy iron door marked with a faded raven. Mara pressed her palm against the lock, letting the contract's magic surge into the mechanism. The door groaned open to a room choked with floating crystals, old ink, and the scent of sulfur.
A man in oversized, graveyard robes stood in the center, scribbling in a ledger. He didn't look up.
"You're late, Mara," Soren Pike said, his voice reedy. "And you brought a very loud, very dangerous traitor. I can smell the Council's desperation on him from here."
Riven stepped forward, hand on his blade. "Cut the bond, Pike. Now. Before I decide your records look better on fire."
Soren finally looked up. He ignored Riven and circled Mara like a specimen under a microscope. He stopped inches away, sniffing the air.
"Cut it?" Soren chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "You don't understand, do you? You think you stole this thing from the vault. You think you're the thief in this story."
"I did steal it," Mara snapped.
Soren smiled. It was the most unsettling thing she'd seen all day. He gestured toward the glowing veins in her arm.
"No, my dear. The contract was never stolen," Soren whispered. "It chose you. And it didn't just choose a carrier... it chose a host."