The Severed Page

Sable’s left index finger bled, though she could not explain why.

A drop of crimson hung suspended on the nail tip, trembling against the bone-white counter of Orveth’s stall. It did not fall. Hovering there, it defied gravity and the logic of a world where flesh served merely as currency. Sable watched it, her breath held in a tight, painful knot. The air in the Rib-Quarter did not smell of decay, as she had once expected, but of the dry, chalky dust of scraped bone and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh ink. The market existed in the hollows of the dormant god’s skeleton, a labyrinth of curved ribs that arched overhead like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral that had forgotten its deity. Bioluminescent fungi, cultivated by the Mnemo dealers, pulsed in a sickly, rhythmic green along the porous surface of the bone-walls, casting the alley in a glow that made every shadow look like a bruise.

Orveth, the dealer, did not look at the blood. She looked at Sable’s spine.

"You’re shaking," Orveth said. Her voice scraped like a quill on dry parchment. Ink-black fingers twitched on the counter. She had traded her sight for a ledger of names, a deal Sable found both repulsive and necessary.

Sable tightened her grip on the satchel at her hip. The leather was worn thin, the stitching frayed where the salt of her own sweat had eaten through the fibres. "My hands are steady," she lied. The tremor in her left index finger was undeniable. It ticked against the wood of the stall’s counter, a small, involuntary percussion. "It is a matter of temperature. The fungi are cold."

Orveth snorted, a sound that seemed to originate from her throat. "It is a matter of debt. You have three days of interest accruing on your spine, Sable. I can see the erosion. The red ink is bleeding through your aura. It smells of iron and failure."

Sable looked away, focusing on the wall of the rib behind the dealer. The bone was pitted, the surface covered in layers of scraped-off script, the ghosts of previous owners still faintly visible beneath the chisel marks. She hated the market. She hated the way the air tasted of chalk and the way every transaction felt like a physical excision. The blood on her finger finally dropped, splattering onto the bone counter with a wet tick. Orveth’s milky eyes tracked the stain.

"I have a memory," Sable said.

The sample ends here.