Zephyr Beaumont's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The first row of glyphs cooled under Thessian's hand. Zephyr stepped back from the wall and studied the man beside him. The debt sat between them like a third figure. He had to know what he had just agreed to. "Why this place," Zephyr asked. "Why this wall." Thessian lowered his spear. He did not look away. "I'm chasing the same thing you are," he said. "Not for power. For a door my people can walk through." He spoke of a quiet corner of the quarter, a tall carved post he had raised himself, marked with the names of those still living. A place waiting for a roof. Zephyr listened. The seahorse-thing landed on the post of his coat. He thought of his own small shelter across the city, an old fuel station packed with relics he had carried home, and the red bird that slept in its corner. He understood wanting a place that held still. "Help me reach the source," Thessian said, "and I'll read every row on this wall. Refuse me behind it and I'll know." His voice stayed level. "Shared stakes. Not oaths." Zephyr reached into his coat and pulled out a brass band he had carried for years, twin crests pressed into its face. He split it at the hinge. Half he kept. Half he passed to Thessian, who slid it over his wrist without ceremony. The metal caught the dim light once and dulled. "Party of two," Zephyr said. Thessian nodded and turned to the second row of glyphs. The wall was still closed. But now two men faced it, and the next breath would be his to give.