When the candle ahead in the corridor went out, darkness didn't "fall"—it *changed its gait*. Before, light had been like a kind of safety here, as if the candle had stitched the rule of warmth into stone. Now there was a crack in that rule, and into the crack, slowly, the absence of air began to seep.
A knock came from behind—and drew closer.
Tap… tap-tap…
And between those taps, someone had said, very softly, very clearly: "Found… you…"
Maira wasted not a single moment. She gripped Leo's arm—this time it was truly a grip—and with a tilt of her chin, pushed Kerin forward.
"Let's go," she whispered. "Now even the books are pointing the way."
Leo's stomach tightened. He could feel the box in his hand—cold, heavy, stubborn inside. The fabric of Shant-Haim clung in the air, but its edge trembled, as if something were pushing from within, trying to force its way out.
"Maira," Kerin whispered, "that… 'found you'… was that the Inspector?"
"Possibly," Maira replied without looking back. "Or someone who speaks the Inspector's language." Then she added, "It doesn't matter. Both mean the same thing—they've reached this far."
The corridor walls were made of stone, but here and there small marks were etched into them: a stitched circle, a candle beneath, and sometimes a thin line—as if an old path, legible only to those who carried candles.
As he walked, Leo sensed threads. Here, the threads were different—less "violent," more "stable." As if someone had checked and tightened them every day. That was why breathing was possible in this place.
But today… the threads were trembling.
The knocking from behind was drawing nearer, and with it came another presence—the lack of hash, seeping through the stone like water. It was slow, but relentless.
Maira stopped them at a turn. Ahead, on the stone wall, hung another leather-bound scroll, not a book—one seemingly fused into the bone of the wall. Words were carved upon it, but as Leo tried to read them, he forgot them instantly. The letters wouldn't stay in his eyes; they slipped away.
"Here," Maira said.
She took out her needle and made two tiny stitches in the air near the seam of the wall—very small, yet precise. For a moment, the stone surface felt "soft," as if the wall remembered once being a door.
Then a long, narrow crack opened in the stone—so narrow they'd have to slip through one by one.
Maira sent Kerin first. Without protest, Kerin slid inside. He glanced back—toward Leo—and in his eyes was that strange, new expression: a burden of responsibility alongside fear, something he'd never asked for.
Leo stepped into the crack, and at that very instant, the thread around his wrist tightened—not upward, but backward, as if something were trying to pull him back.
The box in his hand grew heavier inwardly, as if its weight changed with the shift in rooms.
"Don't touch the thread," Maira whispered close to his ear, then slipped in herself.
The stone door began closing behind them—its stitching reweaving itself shut.
And precisely then, a knock came from outside—now very close—not on the door, but directly on its seam.
*Tap…*
The line in the stone flickered for a moment, then stilled. Closed—but Leo sensed that closure wasn't "victory." It was merely *buying time*.
Inside lay not a corridor, but a room—long and low-ceilinged—with narrow shelves built into the walls. These shelves held no books, but small metal tubes sealed with wax, and wooden boxes—all marked with tiny characters, tiny symbols. As if this were a warehouse of names, each packed and stored away.
In the center stood a stone table, and on it, three burning candles. Their flames were yellow—but around each flame hovered a faint "halo," as if the light were protecting itself.
And on the other side of the table stood a girl.
She looked about Leo's age, perhaps slightly younger. Her clothes were plain—brown, faintly scented with wax—and around her wrist was tied a thin red string, from which dangled a small metal emblem of a candle. Alertness, not sleep, lined her face. Her eyes were calm, but not with innocence—it was the calm of someone who keeps records and knows that records outlive people.
She looked at Maira, and for just a moment, the corner of her lips twitched—an old anger, or an old recognition. Then her gaze swiftly shifted to Leo and Kerin.
"Wait," she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it settled in the room like candlelight—steady.
Maira raised her hand—empty. "Yara," she said, as if the name were a doorway.
Leo noticed: the girl's eyelid fluttered. Just once. But in that blink, something shifted—as if hearing Maira's name had opened a file in her mind.
"Sable," Yara said. There was no welcome in it. Only memory. "Why are you here?"
"Don't look behind me," Maira replied. "Look behind me in time."
Yara's eyes darted instantly toward the wall they'd come through—as if she could hear the pulse through the stone. Then her gaze fixed on the box in Leo's hand.
"What is that?" she asked.
From within the box, the tapping was faint, but in the silence of the room, it still echoed.
*Tap… tap-tap…*
"I don't… know," Leo said.
Yara studied him, and this time, her eyes weren't inspecting—they were weighing, judging how much truth there was in his words.
"Your name?" she asked.
Kerin answered immediately. "Kerin Vael."
Leo said, "Leo Ravel."
Yara didn't nod. Instead, she picked up a candle—very carefully—and brought its flame first near Kerin, then near Leo.
"Don't breathe near the flame," she warned. "And don't lie."
Kerin held his breath. So did Leo.
Yara held the flame before Leo's chest. For a moment, the flame rose high—then shrank sharply—then stabilized again. As if something had startled it.
Yara's brows furrowed slightly.
"Your name…" she said quietly. "It isn't complete."
Leo's heart pounded. "My name—"
"The name you speak," Yara cut in, "holds you. But the name that should hold you—that… is somewhere else."
Maira snapped, "Yara, this isn't the time for philosophy. Behind us—"
"I know," Yara said, her voice gaining firmness for the first time. "This place isn't what they want. They want *this*." Her eyes returned to the box.
Leo gripped the box tighter. Cold crept up from his palm.
Yara gestured toward the table. "Put the box down."
Leo tried. He loosened his fingers.
The tapping inside grew louder.
*Tap… tap-tap… tap-tap…*
The mark on his wrist glowed faintly.
And then—for one moment—Leo felt the box *resist* being released. As if it wasn't held by hand, but by thread—and threads involved questions of ownership.
Maira instantly raised her needle and made a tiny stitch in the air near Leo's wrist—the same stitch she'd used earlier to reroute the thread. The tension slackened briefly, and Leo set the box on the table.
The box settled onto the stone, and the moment it did, the candle flames quivered faintly in unison—as if the room had sensed it, and instinctively tightened its grasp on the light.
Yara traced a thin line of wax around the box—using molten wax dripping from the candle—and with the tip of her finger, inscribed a tiny symbol into the wax: a stitched circle. A small candle beneath.
The wax stilled. As if receiving an order.
"This is a *name-circle*," Yara said. "It will dampen it for a while."
Kerin asked softly, "Dampen?"
"Dampen," Yara repeated. "Because things like this never fully quiet. They only grow faint, so other threads can't read them clearly."
Maira clenched her teeth. "They're still coming."
As if to confirm her words, a faint vibration passed through the wall beyond—the sealed door. The stone's stitching seemed to hold its breath for a moment.
Then—clearly—a sharp, notched-stick sound. Someone outside was "reading" the air.
Yara's face hardened. "Inspector," she said—not a guess, but recognition.
Leo whispered, "Can they get in?"
Yara looked at him. "If they break Candle's rules, then…" She paused. A flicker of doubt crossed her lips—as if even she couldn't decide whether rules would break, or people. "Then everyone here will pay the price."
Kerin asked anxiously, "What do we do?"
Before answering, Yara looked at the candle flame for a moment, as if consulting it. Then she said, "We bind names."
Maira said immediately, "No."
Yara turned sharp eyes on Maira. "You'll say 'no' in my room?"
Maira's jaw tightened. "Binding names is like swearing an oath. And inside him—" she pointed at Leo, "—this thing fights oaths. If you bind it, either it will break, or you will. And if it breaks… it will tear this place apart."
Yara's eyes flickered for a moment to Leo's wrist, as if she could sense the mark beneath the cloth. "So you're saying," she murmured, "he's an Unseamer."
Kerin jerked his head toward Leo, as if the word had dropped a stone inside him. "Un—"
Maira hissed urgently, "Don't speak that word here."
Yara took a deep breath. "Fine," she said. "Then we won't bind an oath. We'll… make a name-shadow."
She pulled a thin gray book from a shelf—not a scroll, but a small register—and opened it on the table. The pages smelled of wax, as if dipped to protect them from burning.
"Leo Ravel," Yara said. "Say your name again. Quietly. And when you speak, don't look at this flame."
Leo lowered his head. "Leo… Ravel."
At that instant, Yara let a drop of ink fall onto the page—from somewhere, as if from her fingertip—and the drop spread on its own, forming letters. This handwriting wasn't human—it was the script of law.
Leo didn't see it, but he *felt* his name casting a "shadow" onto the page—as if his spoken name were becoming a document.
"And mine?" Kerin asked.
Yara did the same. "Kerin Vael."
Two name-shadows settled on the page. Yara moved the candle flame over them, then formed a small circle in the air above the shadows with her fingers.
"Now," she said, "if someone from outside 'reads,' they'll see these shadows instead of the real names. The true thread will retreat slightly."
Leo whispered, "How long will this last?"
Yara looked at him. "As long as you don't ruin it."
A bitter laugh stirred inside Leo, but didn't emerge. *I ruin,* he thought. *Without meaning to.*
Another knock came from beyond the wall—now right at the seam of the door.
*Tap… tap-tap…*
And this time, a faint scratching sound accompanied it, like a fingernail dragging along a thread.
"They're not breaking the door," Maira murmured. "They're writing it."
Yara's face turned rigid. "They're writing an oath," she said. "Not on the door—on us."
Kerin paled. "On us?"
Yara nodded. "If they form the right sentence… this room will obey their command. And we…" she chose her words carefully, "…will be trapped within that command."
Leo's throat tightened with the old knot. He remembered—Master Anselm's voice being cut off, Lead Inspector silenced with a single word. Oaths aren't speech—they're ropes.
Maira said quickly, "Yara, another way."
Without pausing, Yara reached toward a shelf and pulled out a small metal tube—sealed with wax. She broke the seal, and a narrow strip of paper emerged—like a ribbon, covered in tiny script.
"This is the emergency route," she said. "But payment—"
"Later," Maira interrupted. "If we survive."
Yara stared at Maira for a moment—weighing whether to trust her. Then, "Fine."
She placed the ribbon against a specific mark on the wall—a stitched circle—and brought the candle flame near it. The script on the ribbon glowed faintly, as if being read.
A thin crack opened in the wall—this time downward, like a drain. From it came not cold air, but dry air—scented with paper and dust, like an ancient library.
Leo asked fearfully, "Where does this lead?"
Yara paused before answering. "To where we won't speak anyone's name," she said. "And where, if you Unseam…" Her eyes flicked to Leo's wrist, "…you won't open the path just for yourself, but for all of us."
Leo nodded, and in that nod, he tried to make a small promise to himself—*I won't.*
But instantly, fear gripped him—promises too could become oaths. And oaths were dangerous for him.
Beyond the wall, suddenly, the notched-stick sound grew sharper. And with it, someone tried to speak a sentence—very softly, very clearly—perhaps the very "oath-sentence."
"By Dominion's…" a voice came.
And at that instant, the open register on Yara's table trembled on its own. The name-shadows quivered, as if something outside were trying to seize them.
Yara slammed the book shut and bent the candle flame over it. The flame shot high—then stilled. As if the book had hidden itself.
"Now," Yara said.
Kerin ducked first—into the drain-like crack. It was tight; he had to crawl. He glanced back, eyes asking: *Are you coming?*
Leo nodded and followed.
Leo's hand—the box—got caught entering the crack. The box clung strangely in his grip, as if unwilling to take this path. Or as if the thread didn't want him going deeper into Candle's belly.
He pushed harder. Metal scraped stone—and with that friction, the tapping inside the box *stopped* for a moment.
Leo's heart seemed to stop with it.
Then, very faintly, a sound came from inside the box—not tapping, but a breath-like whisper, a word-like hum… yet not a word. An *meaning*:
*Don't bring me here.*
Leo's body went cold. He looked at Maira, who was just slipping in behind Yara. Maira met his eyes—and perhaps sensed the same shift, because her lips moved ever so slightly:
"Don't listen to it."
Leo clenched his teeth and crawled in. Stone pressed against his shoulder. Breathing became hard. Then the crack widened, and he fell into another corridor—onto dusty floor, on his knees.
This corridor was different. No candles here. On the walls were carved names—thousands—tiny letters etched into stone. A wall of names.
Leo's head spun. He felt as if each name were a thread, and together, these threads wove a great fabric—the fabric of Candle.
Kerin sat beside him, panting. "What—is this?"
Yara climbed down after them and turned instantly toward the crack. She pulled the ribbon free, and the crack began sealing shut—stone knitting closed as if exhaling relief.
But just before it closed completely, the voice came again—from outside, clearer now:
"By Dominion's command—"
And on the word "command," the stone's seam quivered.
Yara cut her finger—a tiny wound—and pressed a drop of blood onto the seam. With her fingertip, she smeared it into a Candle sigil.
The stone calmed. The crack sealed shut.
For a few seconds, only their breathing remained.
Then—from far away, from the direction of the crack—a soft knock echoed through the stone.
*Tap… tap-tap…*
And this time, with the knock came the absence of hash—two separate enemies now standing together at the same door.
Yara looked straight at Leo—sharp, piercing. "The name inside you," she said, "is disturbing this wall."
Leo cleared his throat. "I… can't speak it."
"I know," Yara said. "And that is the problem."
Maira said softly, "Yara, don't push him now—"
"No," Yara said. "Now. Because if we don't understand it now, they will understand it from outside."
She pulled out a gray scroll—small, old—and laid it on the floor, opening it. The pages bore ancient names—some scratched out, some burned, some overwritten with fresh ink.
Yara placed not a candle, but her own finger, on the page. She closed her eyes and murmured something like a chant—no words, only the rhythm of breath.
Leo sensed the air in the room "acknowledged" her utterance. As if here, language and breath were bound differently.
Yara's eyes opened. She looked at Leo, and for the first time, fear showed on her face—the kind that appears only in trained people when they see the impossible.
"This…" she said, her voice catching.
Then she tried to read a fragment of a name on the page—just two letters—and the moment she did, her candle flame turned pure *white*.
White flame.
A flash of white, like paper flaring before it burns.
Then the flame died.
Darkness fell—this time, total.
And in the dark, from beyond the stone wall, the oath-sentence finally completed—calm, chilling:
"By Dominion's command… let the door *open itself*."
The stone wall—the wall of names—took a breath for a moment, as if pulled from within.
And Leo's wrist-mark, even in the dark, glowed faintly—as if someone had tugged the thread tightly and said:
Now you answer.