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YSH CREATESYSHRAMOS.NL
YSHRAMOS.NL
Tip: open this on a computer screen to experience the best game version. Your phone works too.
LOADING LEVEL…
Psst: poke the lava while you wait
© 2026 Christianne (Ysh) Ramos ·
The Marchant Tower, Meridian — September 1, 838 AP, 6:52 AM (Anno Pacti, 'In the Year of the Bargain')
The morning her sister fell in love, though neither of them understood yet that this was what had happened, Cordelia Van Nacht H.O. Marchant was thinking about candles.
It was Founding Day, and the nine ceremonial candles needed collecting from the vault before the guests arrived: an ordinary task, handed to her for the first time that year, one she performed with considerably less enthusiasm than the honor was apparently supposed to inspire. She would have much rather spent the morning exactly where she usually spent it, elbow-deep in the vault's older, considerably more interesting shelves, than counting wax stubs for a ceremony she had already sat through eighteen times and could, by now, recite in her sleep.
The vault smelled the way it always did at that hour, before the day's own traffic had properly stirred the air: old parchment and the particular, faintly bitter oil used to keep leather bindings from cracking. Underneath it all sat a cold, mineral hush that never quite left the deepest shelves, no matter the season above ground. It was, Cordelia had long since decided, the only smell in the entire tower she actually trusted.
She reached for the lowest shelf, her mind already halfway back to a stack of restoration work she'd left unfinished the day before, and her own sleeve rode up just far enough to catch the amber glow of her wrist in the vault's low light. 9/9, her Mark read, same as it always had, same as it always would until the day she finally decided otherwise.
That number was her Count: the lives a person was born with, etched into the skin of the wrist the moment they took their first breath. It glowed up from somewhere underneath the skin rather than sitting on top of it, the way ink or dye would have, a light with no visible source and no known mechanism, the kind of thing the Ledger had learned, centuries ago, to stop asking questions about. That was precisely why no one in nine hundred years had ever successfully faked, painted over, or surgically altered one. Nothing had ever been found that could change it, or make it lie. The Count itself was fixed forever from that first instant, never once added to, only ever spent down, one life at a time, for the rest of an existence that measured itself, quite literally, by how much of it was still left on the arm. No one, in nine hundred years of record-keeping, had ever been born with more than nine. The Mark itself was always written as a fraction, lives remaining over lives at birth, an 8/9, a 3/5, a plain 1/1 for those born with only a single life to spend, the second number fixed forever, the first only ever getting smaller.
Meridian had built its entire social order on top of that second number. Nine was royalty, in every sense but the word; there had never been more than a dozen living at once, in the entire world, all of them from the same five old Houses. Seven or eight bought a person real comfort, and rooms nobody questioned their presence in. Five or six was comfortable too, in its own quieter way, and genuinely respected: doctors, officers, the guild-trained backbone of every profession the city actually depended on to function. Three or four was a harder life, and everyone knew it, but not a closed one: the schools still took you, most trades still hired you, and a careful, lucky person could still build something worth having. One or two was where the city stopped pretending charity was the same thing as respect, a single, ungenerous life the closest Meridian let a person come to being born already spent. The whole city, high floor to low, had arranged itself around that number for nine hundred years, as naturally and as thoughtlessly as water finding its own level.
They lived, as House Marchant always had, in the pale tower at the center of Meridian, nine floors of white stone standing over a city that had spent nine hundred years arranging itself by the same rough principle the tower's own height seemed to suggest: House towers highest, the low-lying districts lowest. It was a tidy enough story for the skyline as a whole. It was never quite that clean inside any one tower in particular, Marchant's included, whatever the outside implied.
Not every Marchant lived in the tower itself, whatever the House's own mythology might have implied to outsiders. The tower belonged, by nine hundred years of quiet, unwritten custom, to the senior branch alone, Cordelia's own direct line, the one that had held the First Family's actual name and actual seat since the beginning, rather than one of the dozen more distant cousins' branches that had split off, married out, or simply drifted over the centuries into their own smaller, still comfortable, considerably less watched houses scattered across the city's better districts. One such branch, three generations removed, married in through a woman nobody quite remembered anymore, kept a perfectly respectable townhouse two districts over, and had never once, as far as Cordelia knew, been invited to so much as tour the tower's private floors.
The tower's own floors climbed the same way a Count did: nine of them, none built since, the number chosen deliberately, centuries ago, to match the same ceiling every Marchant birth was still measured against, though which family member actually slept on which floor had always come down to ordinary things, marriage and age and who needed to be near the nursery, and never once to whose Mark currently read highest. The air itself seemed to thin the further down a person went, though nothing about that was actually true. Real fire burned in sconces along every hallway of the tower, an old habit nobody remembered starting and nobody had bothered to break, as though the family had decided long ago that flame recognized flame and preferred to keep some of its own kind close.
Below the House towers, the city dropped away in careful, unspoken tiers: the comfortable middle blocks where Median-born families lived well enough, and beneath those, the low-lying districts polite company called the Underglow, and everyone else called something worse.
She was nineteen, standing at the mirror in the receiving room, settling her Veil, a simple cuff of dark, supple leather, onto her left wrist. In the glass she looked like every other Marchant woman who had ever stood in that exact spot before her: dark hair pulled back and pinned with more precision than feeling, a long, unhurried face better suited to composure than warmth, and eyes so pale a grey they read as silver in low light, the one truly unmistakable Marchant trait, carried down through four hundred years of careful marriages like a watermark nobody had ever quite managed to breed out. People called them striking, at parties. Servants, when they thought no Marchant was listening, called them something closer to unsettling. Cordelia had never minded either description particularly. She had decided, somewhere around age twelve, that if her eyes were going to unsettle people regardless of what she did with the rest of her face, she may as well get some use out of it.
They called it a Veil, though it was not one in any real sense. It covered no part of her face, no part of her hair, nothing at all above the wrist. In physical shape it was nothing more than a simple leather cuff; the name had simply outlived whatever it was first meant to describe, the way old names tend to. Clasped shut, it hid whatever numeral was branded into the skin beneath it; that was the whole of what it was built to do, for most of the people in Meridian who wore one.
The Marchants, mostly, didn't bother with the shutting. Beneath the leather, on Cordelia's own wrist, branded into the skin since the hour she was born, was her Mark: a glowing numeral, warm as an ember even in daylight. Left uncovered, the way her family always wore it, it glowed exactly as it had in the vault that same morning: unspent, unbothered, entirely indifferent to whatever weight the rest of Meridian seemed to think a number like hers ought to carry.
Rosalind, fifteen, sat cross-legged on the window seat behind her, watching. She had the same eyes; all the Marchant children did, it was the one thing nobody had ever managed to marry out of the bloodline no matter how hard certain branches occasionally tried, but on Rosalind they read differently: less silver, more quicksilver, never quite still, forever catching some new detail of a room and deciding, instantly and plainly, whether she approved of it.
Their mother had sent up a girl to help them dress for the Founding Day reception, the annual evening that marked, at least by the House's own telling, the night some ancestor of theirs had first struck whatever bargain the nine-pointed star was supposed to commemorate, nine hundred years and more gone now, remembered by everyone in the House and understood, if Cordelia was honest, by no one. The girl had gone quiet and quick with her hands, the way household staff always did around Marchant daughters, as though speed might make her invisible. Cordelia had long since learned not to look at a servant's wrist. Rosalind had not learned this yet, or had learned it and decided she didn't much care to practice it, and asked, plainly, the way only a fifteen-year-old with nothing yet at stake could ask:
“What's yours?”
The girl's hands stilled on the second clasp.
“Rosalind,” their mother's voice said from the doorway, though she hadn't yet stepped through it. Lady Marchant had a talent for arriving at exactly the moment a daughter needed correcting, as though she kept a private ledger of her own. She was tall in the particular way that made a room rearrange itself around her without her needing to ask anything of it, the same pale, silvered eyes as both her daughters, her dark hair gone mostly to white now and worn, unapologetically, without a single pin out of place. “We do not ask.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is impolite to ask.”
“But we can see hers.” Rosalind nodded at Cordelia's open wrist, the 9/9 still uncovered, glowing faintly in the window light. “Nobody minds seeing hers.”
“That,” their mother said, crossing the room and taking over the clasp herself, “is the whole of the difference. Showing what is yours. Asking after what is not.” She secured the Veil in three brisk movements, fitted, not shut, then looked at her younger daughter with the particular, weary patience of someone explaining a rule they had never once questioned to someone who insisted on asking why.
“Some things are for the Ledger to know, and no one else,” their mother said. The Ledger was the great record that had tracked every birth and every Count in Meridian since before the tower itself was built, commoner and Highblood and Nine alike, no exceptions made, not even for the Houses that kept it. “That is what the Veil is for.”
“Then why do we wear ours open?”
“Because we can afford to.”
The girl finished with her own work and left without being told to. Cordelia watched her go in the mirror and thought, the way she thought about most uncomfortable things at nineteen, briefly, and then not at all, that she had never once heard anyone in the house ask that girl her name.
✦
The Marchant vault, three levels beneath the tower — September 1, 838 AP, 7:14 AM
Rosalind met him for the first time in the vault that very morning, trailing after Cordelia, who had gone down to fetch the nine ceremonial candles before the household staff needed them for the hall. The old Marchant archive sat three levels beneath the tower, cut into the stone itself, cool and dry and lit by the same ember-sconces that lined the halls above, though down here the light was kept low on purpose, easier on paper that had long since outlived the people who wrote it. The air smelled the way old paper always did as it slowly turned to dust, something between a struck match and a closed book left too long in the sun. The family kept everything there it had ever set down: birth registries, correspondence, half a dozen abandoned drafts of its own official history, and, in a locked case near the back, the nine ceremonial candles themselves, replaced one at a time across generations and never once let to burn all the way down.
The case was Mateo Reyes's to open that year. He was seventeen, apprenticed to the vault under a contract his family had held for two generations, Count 3/3, a number low enough that most people's eyes slid past it without meaning to. He had warm brown skin, dark hair, dark and quick eyes, and long fingers that moved over old paper, and, that morning, over nine old candles, the way Cordelia imagined a musician might move over an instrument he had loved since childhood. Against all that warm brown, his Mark looked pale and small, faintly apologetic, as if it knew perfectly well it was the least interesting thing about him and had made its peace with that a long time ago.
He called Rosalind “Miss Marchant” for the better part of a year after that, because whatever began in the vault on that particular morning did not stay contained to it. Cordelia had already started spending her own afternoons down there, ostensibly to catalogue the household's ceremonial texts, actually because the vault was the one room in the tower where nobody expected her to be charming. Once Rosalind had a reason of her own to keep coming, she stopped needing Cordelia's permission to find one.
Cordelia noticed before either of them said a word about it. She noticed the way Rosalind's visits stretched from an hour to an afternoon, the way she started asking about restoration work she had never once cared about before, the way Mateo's careful, unhurried hands slowed down further whenever Rosalind was in the room, as though even paper deserved gentler handling while she was watching.
She said nothing. She was nineteen, and did not yet know how to say the thing she was actually noticing without it sounding like an accusation, so she told herself, for a long time, that there was nothing yet to say.
✦
The Marchant Tower, a receiving hall — January 8, 839 AP, 8:47 PM
The following January, Cordelia stood at the edge of a receiving hall in the Marchant Tower and watched three of her own cousins, all freshly twenty, take their first Perish together, laughing, half-drunk on courage and ceremonial wine, holding hands like children about to jump into cold water.
The hall smelled the way every Kindling gathering did: ceremonial wine gone slightly too sweet from standing open too long, the particular waxy perfume of too many candles burning in one enclosed room. Beneath both sat something faint and metallic, something Cordelia had never quite been able to name and had long since stopped trying to. They were doing it on purpose, which was rather the whole point of the occasion: this was the Kindling Age, the birthday every child in Meridian grew up half-dreading and half-longing for, built entirely around a single deliberate Perish.
A Perish, simply enough, meant spending one of the lives a person was born with. The body stopped, briefly, and then started again, provided a life still remained to bring it back.
Spending the very last life a person had was a different matter, and Meridian had a separate, considerably grimmer word for it: to Wilt. Most people who Wilted did so quietly, in old age, simply running out. Others Wilted suddenly, all at once, to nothing gentler than the world's own cruelty: a fever like Ashfire, or an injury too severe for even a full Count to survive. Either way, once Wilted, a person did not come back. There was no life left to give the body.
Meridian, understandably, preferred its Perishes planned rather than left to chance. That was the entire reasoning behind the Kindling Age: rather than risk a person's first Perish arriving unplanned, alone, at some considerably less careful moment, the whole city arranged for it to happen safely instead, at twenty, surrounded by people who loved them. The occasion built around it was called a Kindling Ember.
None of it worked without Ember itself, the compound at the center of every Kindling Ember worth the name. Every successful revival, with or without help, came with a rush of pure, involuntary pleasure called the Bloom: warmth and relief flooding a body simply glad to be breathing again. Ember, a refined substance licensed only to the wealthiest Houses, intensified that rush considerably, turning an ordinary Bloom into something closer to bottled ecstasy.
Custom held that the newly-twenty should not fall alone. A small circle of their own closest people stood witness beside them, sharing in whatever the night actually cost. Nobody Cordelia had ever asked could say with any confidence how old the custom itself was, only that every account traced it back to the same origin: the nine faithful standing beside the very first Bargain, the idea that no one who mattered enough should have to cross a threshold like that with strangers, or alone.
For centuries, standing witness had meant real Ember for the whole circle, not just the honoree: Witness Ember, diluted well below the honoree's own dose but genuine chemistry all the same, producing a smaller euphoria of its own when the witnesses came back: nothing close to a true Bloom in scale, but real, a sample rather than the meal. It also meant, for exactly as many centuries, a slow and steady accounting of witnesses who never should have Perished at all: young, healthy, gone to nothing worse than bad luck or a dose measured for somebody else's body.
House Farrow's own numbers eventually grew too embarrassing to keep ignoring, and the Tether arrived as the safer alternative, not a weaker version of Witness Ember but something else entirely: a different plant, a different chemistry, sharing nothing with Ember beyond the simple fact that both, in enough quantity, could put a body to sleep. No euphoria in it. No Bloom. Just a synchronized, harmless dark, timed to match whatever the honoree was actually spending, so the ceremony kept its oldest promise without the cost that used to pay for it.
Witness Ember never stopped being made, though, and never stopped costing considerably more than the Tether that had replaced it in most households. Getting either dose right took a level of Farrow precision that never came cheap, and real Ember itself carried a price the Tether's plainer chemistry never had to. Highblood families had found, predictably, a way to turn that difference into its own kind of display: Witness Ember, personalized rather than mixed in some general batch, the old style, the expensive style, the style that let a family court real danger and real money in the same gesture, and be seen doing both at once.
Cordelia had never taken one herself, in all the Kindling Embers she would attend over the decades that followed. It was, she would come to understand only much later, a private category of thing she had simply never had reason to enter, nobody in her own circle needing her that particular way, or perhaps, some less comfortable part of her suspected, she had simply never let anyone get close enough to ask.
Cordelia had only recently started noticing the pattern herself, and it bothered her more than she quite knew what to do with yet: the same families who called a Count a private matter, nobody else's business, were somehow always the ones spending the most money proving how little they feared losing one. She had said as much once, to her own mother, and had been told, not unkindly, that she would understand it better in a few years. She was not at all sure she wanted to.
She watched their bodies go still. She watched the room hold the particular breath that rooms always held at that moment, and then watched the Marks dim, one after another, guttering down like a candle pinched between two fingers, and then relight, a moment later, one number smaller than before.
Her cousins came back gasping, not with pain, but the way a person gasps at the first lungful of air after being underwater too long, as though something in them had been quietly starving and had just, all at once, been fed. Their eyes went wet and too bright. Their hands wouldn't sit still. One of them started laughing and simply couldn't stop, doubled over, delighted by nothing in particular, the helpless kind of laughing that usually only happens to small children right before they fall asleep.
This was the Bloom: warmth spreading outward from the chest like the first swallow of good wine on an empty stomach, except larger, except sweeter, except gone almost as suddenly as it arrived, leaving behind an ache shaped exactly like wanting it again. People spoke of their first Bloom for the rest of their lives the way other people spoke of falling in love.
Half of Meridian repeated, at every gathering like this one, that a Count was a gift, and gifts were meant to be used. Watching her cousins that night, flushed, glowing, already asking each other, quietly, when they might do it again, Cordelia understood for the first time exactly what that particular gift had been built to cost.
She watched people she had known her whole life reach for each other afterward as if they had survived something together, because they had. She understood, distantly, watching from the edge of the hall with her own Mark untouched and her own hands folded, that she was looking at the single most treasured thing this culture had to offer its favored children, and that she did not want it.
Not that night. Not, as it turned out, ever.