THE NINTH DEBT

Chapter Five: A Gift with Teeth

Ordan Vey suddenly whipped around, his hand lunging forward to press the cold edge of a short blade directly against Tavian's throat.

"Who the hell are you?" Ordan demanded, his voice sharp and panicked.

Tavian froze, staring at him in utter disbelief. Only moments earlier, the archivist had been shouting urgent warnings, dragging him desperately through the crumbling ruins, and risking his own life to keep the collectors at bay. Now, the man's fingers trembled around the hilt of his weapon, and his eyes mirrored the frantic terror of someone suddenly cornered by a lethal stranger.

"Ordan, put that knife down right now," Tavian whispered, keeping his hands carefully raised.

"How do you even know my name?"

"Because you literally just told me!"

"When?"

"Less than an hour ago!" Tavian shot back, his voice rising in frustration.

Ordan's jaw tightened into a rigid line. "And you expect me to simply believe that?"

Behind them, the unsettling sound of shifting stone broke their concentration as one of the fallen collectors began to stir.

Tavian heard the harsh, grating scrape of porcelain against the flagstones. He instantly spun around to face the threat, but Ordan's weapon followed his movement, the sharp point cutting a thin, stinging line across the skin of his neck.

"Do not move an inch," Ordan hissed.

"A collector is getting back up right behind us!"

"Stop trying to use cheap tricks to distract me."

The broken collector slowly hoisted itself up from the floor. Its cracked porcelain mask turned mechanically toward Tavian, and the pulsing abyss of darkness behind its empty eyeholes flickered like a dying star.

"Unlicensed power detected," the creature rasped.

Deep beneath the skin of his forearm, Tavian felt the ink-black markings around his wrist suddenly grow searingly hot.

The collector raised its hand.

Panic surged through Tavian, but before he could react, Ordan's knife was violently jerked out of his grip, clattering loudly against the far stone wall. The archivist stared down at his empty, shaking fingers in profound shock, then looked back at the collector, which was now marching directly toward them.

Acting purely on instinct, Tavian thrust his marked hand forward.

The entire subterranean chamber shook to its foundations.

A devastating invisible shock wave smashed the collector against a thick stone pillar with enough raw force to shatter the masonry. The creature's porcelain mask finally gave way, bursting into a cloud of white fragments that rained across the floor.

The echoes of the impact slowly faded into a tense, breathless quiet.

Tavian lowered his arm, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. When he looked up, he saw Ordan backing away from him as if he were a monster.

"Stay away from me," Ordan warned, his voice shaking.

"Ordan, please—"

"I don't even know who you are!"

The rejection hit Tavian with a physical force far sharper than any blade. He wanted to march across the room, grab the archivist by the collar, and shake him until his stolen memories violently flooded back. Instead, he stood entirely motionless, watching helplessly as the dark circles on his wrist slowly dimmed back beneath his skin.

From the deep shadows at the center of the chamber came a wet, rattling cough.

Avar was still alive, though barely clinging to the edge of existence.

"Come here, boy," the giant whispered, its voice weak.

Tavian approached the massive form cautiously, keeping one wary eye on Ordan. "What have you done to him?"

"I have done nothing to corrupt his mind," Avar replied softly. "You are the one who pulled the thread."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"The ancient laws of debt rarely make sense to the person who has to pay them." Avar's solitary silver eye shifted slowly toward the archivist. "The power I granted you was never free. The universe must always balance what has been forcibly taken from the dead. You borrowed ancient strength from my people, and someone living somewhere out in the world paid the heavy difference."

"Then take the power back!" Tavian pleaded.

The giant's stone mouth twitched in a grim semblance of a smile. "Would that I could."

Tavian glanced back at Ordan, who was currently staring down at his own hands as though they belonged to an entirely different person. "Can his memories somehow be restored?"

Avar remained silent for a long, agonizing moment. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps?"

"A human memory is not a simple coin that you can just hand back across a counter," Avar explained. "It is a delicate thread woven intricately through an entire lifetime. If you pull too hard on it, you risk unraveling everything else attached to it."

Tavian swallowed hard against the dryness in his throat. "What happens if I use this power again?"

"Someone else will forget."

"And what if I refuse to use it entirely?"

"Then someone may very well die because of your hesitation." Avar slowly closed its remaining eye. "Welcome to the true burden of the debt, Tavian Rook."

They managed to leave the chamber before any of the remaining collectors could track them down.

Ordan walked several paces ahead along the dark path, refusing to acknowledge Tavian unless absolute necessity demanded it. Every few minutes, the archivist would glance back over his shoulder with a look of deep suspicion, as if some buried fragment of his mind half-recognized Tavian and resented the deep betrayal of his own failing memory.

The winding passage finally opened up onto a steep hillside overlooking a sprawling valley settlement.

Tavian came to an abrupt halt, breathless.

Down below sat dozens of small, huddled houses bordered by crooked wooden fences. Thin ribbons of grey smoke curled lazily from stone chimneys, and warm lanterns flickered behind dusty windows. Figures moved purposefully through the narrow dirt streets carrying woven baskets, drawing fresh water from wells, and repairing storm-damaged roofs.

For the first time since the catastrophic fall of his old life, the simple sight of ordinary human existence nearly brought him to tears.

"Where are we?" Tavian asked quietly.

"This is Greyhaven," Ordan replied without stopping. "Or at least, what is left of it."

"People actually live down there?"

"Some manage to survive."

"Then we can finally ask someone for help."

Ordan shot him a grim, sidelong look. "Help is a very expensive commodity in a place like this."

Before Tavian could press him on what he meant, a sudden, piercing scream echoed up from the quiet settlement below.

In the middle of the main street, a little girl stood crying, clutching a crudely carved wooden horse to her chest. An elderly man knelt in the dirt directly before her, his hands trembling violently as he stared at her face.

"Please," the old man begged, his voice cracking with despair. "Just tell me who you are."

The little girl burst into tears, her shoulders shaking. "Grandfather, it's me! It's your granddaughter!"

The old man shook his head with sudden, violent grief. "I know your face. I know in my bones that I should know your face. But when I look right at you, I see nothing but a stranger."

The girl dropped the wooden horse in fright. It struck the cobblestones and shattered into pieces.

Tavian felt the dark markings beneath the skin of his wrist twitch violently.

"No," he whispered in horror.

Ordan hurried over, following his horrified gaze. "What is it?"

"That just happened because of me," Tavian realized, the truth sickening him.

"The power," Ordan murmured, his expression hardening. "The first payment. The giant warned you that someone living would pay the price."

"Then we need to get away from here before I cause another tragedy."

Tavian looked at the archivist. "You're right. We find the source of this curse, we learn how to break it once and for all, and then we find my mother."

"And what if stopping it requires more innocent lives?"

Tavian had no answer for that.

Down in the street, the little girl reached out a tentative hand toward the old man, but he instinctively recoiled from her touch.

Tavian turned away, unable to watch another second.

Greyhaven's only operational inn sat right beside a dry, stone-lined well. Its swinging wooden sign displayed a silver bird with outstretched wings, though someone had deliberately scratched away the name painted beneath it.

Inside, the heavy air smelled strongly of boiled cabbage and damp wool. The low murmurs of conversation instantly died the moment Tavian and Ordan pushed the door open, every face in the room turning to stare at the newcomers.

A broad-shouldered woman emerged from behind a cluttered wooden counter. "We have no rooms available," she stated flatly.

"We haven't even asked for a room yet," Ordan replied dryly.

"You will."

"Then we'll ask when the time comes."

The woman's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Outsiders only ever bring trouble to places like this."

Tavian stepped forward, keeping his voice steady. "We need food, shelter, and information. We can pay for what we take."

"Pay with what?"

Tavian reached into his pocket and produced two dull copper coins, placing them on the counter.

The woman stared at them for a long moment. Then, she let out a harsh, bitter laugh—not because the coins were amusing, but because she looked as though she had completely forgotten how else to react to money.

"Metal doesn't work here, boy."

"Then what does?"

"Names," she said simply.

Tavian frowned in confusion.

The woman leaned aggressively across the counter. "A single night under my roof costs the memory of someone you love. A bowl of hot stew costs the name of someone who has wronged you in the past. A bed for a full week costs the memory of your own face."

Ordan muttered a curse under his breath.

The woman's sharp gaze snapped to him. "Got something to say about it, scholar?"

"No. Just remembering why I despise this wretched place."

Tavian looked around the common room. He noticed several patrons wearing small wooden tags around their necks, each one carefully carved with a single word. In a dark corner, an elderly woman sat entirely alone, repeatedly whispering the exact same word over and over again to the empty air.

"Mara."

Tavian's heart stopped dead in his chest. He rushed across the room toward her.

"Where did you hear that name?" he asked urgently.

The woman looked up, startled by his abruptness. "Mara?"

"Yes, my mother. Do you know her?"

The woman's tired eyes welled with sudden tears. "I had a daughter named Mara once."

Tavian dropped to his knees beside her wooden chair. "What happened to her?"

"I don't remember," the woman sobbed softly.

She reached up with a trembling finger to touch the wooden tag hanging at her throat. It was completely blank.

"I traded her name just to buy another winter of safety," she whispered. "The collectors were coming for us, and I was terrified. I thought I could somehow buy back what I had lost." Her lips quivered uncontrollably. "But now... now I can't even remember what her face looked like."

Tavian looked down at the blank tag, then instinctively at the black markings hidden beneath his sleeve. For a terrible second, he wanted to tear his own arm off.

The woman caught his sleeve with a desperate grip. "Please," she whispered. "If you ever find my daughter out there, tell her that I tried my hardest to remember."

Tavian could barely force the words past the lump in his throat. "I will."

He stood up abruptly and walked out into the cold air before his rising grief could curdle into blind anger.

The settlement stretched out beneath a sky the color of old ash. Somewhere in the distance, a child laughed, and the sound was so achingly ordinary that it felt entirely cruel.

Tavian pressed his marked wrist hard against his chest. He had desperately wanted power because he was tired of feeling helpless, but now he understood that his old helplessness had at least allowed him to know who was suffering. This new power made him an active participant in the suffering itself.

Ordan emerged from the inn door behind him. "We need to leave this place before nightfall."

Tavian didn't turn around. "Do you remember anything about me at all?"

"No."

"Not even a lingering feeling?"

Ordan hesitated, looking out over the misty valley. "Sometimes, when I look directly at you, I feel a strange sense of guilt... as though I abandoned someone who needed me."

Tavian closed his eyes tightly. "You did."

"I still don't know who you are," Ordan said quietly, stepping closer. "But I am sorry."

Tavian almost told him the whole truth right then. He almost reminded him of the dark underground chamber, the brutal collectors, the shining blade, and the solemn promise they had made to find answers together.

Instead, he opened his eyes and looked down the long road leading out of Greyhaven.

"Then help me make sure you never have to feel sorry again."

Ordan gave a slow, resolute nod. "Let's walk."

Neither of them noticed the little girl from the street standing quietly at the very edge of the settlement, watching their figures disappear into the thickening mist.

In her small hands, she held a brand-new wooden horse.

Its body had been painted entirely black. Nine intricate circles had been carved deeply into its belly.

And when she opened her mouth to speak, a voice far older than the world whispered softly through her lips.

"The boy has finally learned the price of power. Now, it is time to teach him what happens when he can no longer afford to pay."