Thirty-four thousand.
That was the number the Verath bloom had cost, and Soren had been awake long enough to do nothing with it.
He sat against the wall of the dorm with his knees up and ran the inventory instead, because the number was already spent and inventory was the only thing that paid out.
What he had.
One Quill with two uses left.
Three bonds holding above baseline.
A soul running at fifty percent that had stopped dropping for the first time in two weeks.
What he'd lost.
The Verath grove.
A safe house.
The illusion that the Author needed a reason.
What he controlled. Less than he wanted. More than the Author thought.
Pack Sense was loud this morning.
Four frequencies, all of them restless.
Selah's ran cold and tight, the way it did when she was angry at herself for caring.
Maren's spiked and dropped.
Dani's was a thin steady hum, the moth somewhere in the rafters keeping watch it hadn't been asked to keep.
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