THE WEIGHT OF CHAINS

SERAPHINA 

I kneel in the mud outside Old Ruth's stall, sorting chicory root into a basket, and my knees are already soaked through.

 The sky is the color of a bruise. Rain is coming. Acid rain, the kind that smells like pennies before it even touches skin.

"You're slow today," Ruth says, watching me from her stool. Her fingers are grey to the knuckle from handling fungus all morning.

"I'm thorough," I say, not looking up. "There's a difference."

"There's mud in your hair," she says.

I reach up and touch my hair. There is, in fact, mud in my hair. I sigh and wipe my hand on my skirt. "Great. Wonderful. Exactly what I wanted today."

Ruth almost smiles. "Take the root to Yelena's before the sky opens. Go on."

I stand up, my knees popping. "Fine. But if I melt out there, it's your fault."

"You won't melt," Ruth says. "You'll just smell like pennies for a week."

I laugh. Short and surprised, because I don't laugh much these days. I duck out from under the tarp and step into the street.

The mud is thick and pulls at my boots. I've lived on this street my whole life, and I've hated it for ten years. Ever since the fire. Ever since I lost everything.

A boy sprints past me, clutching a fistful of coins that are clearly not his.

"Seraphina!" he shouts over his shoulder. "Tell Aunt I didn't take it!"

"You took it," I call after him.

"I know!" he yells back, and he's already gone, swallowed by the fog.

I shake my head, but I'm smiling. Bastien is nine years old and has no shame at all. I almost envy him for it.

I walk two more streets before I feel it. That cold drop in my stomach, the one that always comes right before I see something I don't want to see.

A man is walking toward me. Ordinary clothes. Ordinary face. Head down, shoulders hunched. Around his throat, thin and black, is a chain.

Nobody else can see it. Only me. It's a collar of black smoke, tight as a noose, links of shadow fused straight into the meat of his neck. It pulses once, slow, like something breathing under his skin.

It's new. The links haven't settled into his skin yet. He thinks he just signed a piece of paper. He doesn't know a piece of paper can grow teeth.

My chest goes tight. My hands curl into fists.

"You should run," I whisper, too quiet for him to hear. "Whatever they promised you, it isn't worth this."

He doesn't look up. He never does. Nobody ever does.

I keep walking, because there is nothing else I can do, and that thought sits in my chest like a stone the whole rest of the way to Yelena's door.

Yelena opens the door before I even knock. Her eyes are red from crying.

"Is she better?" I ask, holding out the basket.

"She's sleeping," Yelena says, taking it from me fast. "Finally sleeping. I didn't think she would ever stop coughing."

"It's just root," I say. "You don't have to thank me like this."

"It's not just root," she says, and her voice cracks. "Not to us. Not when we have nothing and nobody. You came anyway. You always come anyway."

I look at her, at the dark circles under her eyes and the desperation in her face, and I feel something twist in my chest. I've been where she is. I know what it feels like to have nothing and to be terrified of losing the only thing you have left.

"Keep her warm," I say. "Wrap her in blankets. The fever will break faster if she sweats it out."

"I know," Yelena says. "I know. I've done this before. I just, I'm so scared, Seraphina. I'm so scared I'll lose her too."

"You won't," I say. "She's strong. She's a fighter. Just like her mother."

Yelena squeezes my wrist, quick and warm. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Get some rest," I say. "You can't help her if you're falling over."

She nods and shuts the door before the fog can follow her in.

I stand there a second too long, staring at the closed door. I like being needed. I don't get to feel that very often.

I start walking again, and the fog closes in around me. This is when I think about them.

I should tell you about my family. If I don't, nothing else about me will make sense.

I had a mother. Her name was Elena. She sang while she mended fishing nets, badly, the same three songs over and over. 

It used to drive me crazy. Now I would give anything to hear her sing off-key one more time.

I had a father. His name was Tomas. His hands were rough from the steam vents, and he used to hold my face in those rough hands and tell me I was going to be somebody someday. 

He was the kindest man I ever knew, and I watched him die on his knees in the mud.

I had a home. Small. Leaking. It smelled like fungus-mash and sulfur, and I loved it, because it was mine, because it was warm, because the people inside it loved me back.

I was thirteen the night that home burned.

Men came. Their coats had the Romano crest stitched on the shoulder. The fire climbed the walls too fast, faster than fire should, like it was hungry for more than wood.

I remember my mother's voice. She screamed my name. I turned to run toward her, and I saw her standing in the doorway of our shack, her hands outstretched toward me, her mouth open.

And then there was no more voice where her voice had been. The roof collapsed. The flames swallowed her whole.

I remember my father on his knees in the mud. His hands were bound behind his back. His face was pressed into the wet earth, and he was begging.

"Please," he said, his voice broken. "Please, my family, please don't hurt them. Take whatever you want. Take me. Just leave them alone. I'll do anything."

"There is nothing you can offer that will change anything," said the man standing over him. His voice was calm, almost bored. 

"The debt is owed. The debt will be collected."

"Please, I'm begging you—"

"Enough."

The man raised his hand. I saw the chain around my father's throat, thick and black and pulsing, and I saw it come loose like a rope yanked out of deep water. 

It flew fast and silver-black, straight into the man's open palm.

My father's body went still. Not hurt. Not bleeding. Just still. The specific stillness of a house with no one left inside it.

The tall man never looked at me. I was thirteen years old, pressed flat against the rain barrel, close enough to count the rings on his fingers. 

He turned around and walked away like he'd just finished an errand.

I found out his name later. Dante Romano. The coldest name in the underworld.

I was thirteen. I didn't have a plan yet. I only had one thought, and I have held onto it every single day since.

He took my father's soul. One day, I will make him pay for it.

"You're making the face again," Milo says, jogging up beside me on my way home. He's fifteen, all elbows and knees.

"What face."

"The murder face."

"That's just my regular face, Milo."

"No," he says, very seriously. "Your regular face is bored. This is different."

"You shouldn't walk with me," I say. "You know what people say about me."

"I don't care what people say about you," he says. "You're the only person who's ever been nice to me. Besides, I can protect you."

"From what? A determined chicken?"

"I could handle a chicken," he says, wounded. "I could absolutely handle a chicken."

I laugh. Twice today. That might be some kind of record.

For a few minutes I actually forget to be the strange girl who sees invisible chains on rich men's throats.

It doesn't last.

I hear the boots before I see them. Too many. Too even. Moving like the street already belongs to whoever is wearing them.

My whole body goes cold.

"Get inside," I say, and I shove Milo toward the nearest doorway.

"What's wrong”

"Now, Milo. Go."

He runs. I don't watch him go, because six men are stepping out of the fog. Dark coats. Too clean for our mud. Cut the way nothing in the Enclave is ever cut.

At the center of them walks a man I have never stood this close to in ten years, but I would know him anywhere. Black hair. Black coat. Sharp jaw. Unreadable eyes.

And around his shoulders, invisible to everyone but me, is a chain unlike anything I have ever seen. Dozens of contracts, twisted together into something closer to armor than a collar. 

Thick links of black and red, pulsing with a life of their own. I can hear them humming.

A woman beside him is holding a ledger against her hip.

"That one," she says. "Luca's girl. Her father's old debt—the one you burned into your own contract, sir. She'll settle what's left."

My stomach drops. "I don't owe anyone anything," I say, and I make my voice come out steady even though my hands are shaking. "My father's debt died with him."

"Debts don't die," the woman says, not looking up from her ledger. "They transfer."

"To what," I snap. "I'm not a debt. I'm a person."

She doesn't even flinch. "Every person is a debt, one way or another."

That's when he finally looks at me.

Dante Romano turns his head, slow, unbothered, and his eyes are so blue and so cold that for one whole second I forget every single plan I've made for ten years.

"She talks," he says. Not to me. To the woman with the ledger.

"She does that," the woman says.

"Bring her," he says, and turns away, already bored, already finished with me.

Something cracks open in my chest. Rage. Ten years of it, all at once.

"Wait—"

Two of his men grab my arms before I can finish the word. Their grips are iron.

"Let go of me!" I shout, twisting hard. It does nothing. They are twice my size.

"Don't struggle," one of them says. "Make this easy on yourself."

"I know who you are," I say, not to him, but to Dante's back. "I know what you did."

Dante stops walking. He doesn't turn around, but I see his shoulders tense.

"You don't know anything," he says, his voice flat.

"I know you took my father's soul. The night of the fire. The night you burned my home and killed my mother. I was there. I saw you. I watched you take him."

The men holding me exchange a look. They didn't know what I was about to say.

Dante turns around slowly. For the first time, he really looks at me. His eyes meet mine, and I see it, the flicker of something. Not recognition. Not yet. But something. Curiosity. Or unease.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Seraphina. Seraphina Luca."

"Seraphina," he repeats, like he's tasting it. "You said you saw me."

"I did."

"At the fire."

I don't answer. I just hold his gaze.

"Let her go," he says to the men holding me. They release my arms immediately. I don't run. I stay where I am, my eyes locked on his.

"You're lying," he says, but it's not a statement of fact. It's a question.

"I'm not lying."

"You must be," he says, but there's a crack in his voice now. "I've never—I don't remember you."

"Of course you don't," I say. "Why would you remember me? I was nobody. I was a thirteen-year-old girl hiding behind a rain barrel. Why would I matter?"

He stares at me for a long moment. The fog swirls between us.

"Bring her," he says again, but this time there's something different in his voice.

"Where?" I ask.

"To the Spires."

"Why?"

"Because I want to know what else you saw."

The carriage is black and polished. It smells like leather and something floral, something that doesn't belong in the Enclave. 

One of the men shoves me onto the bench across from Dante Romano, and the carriage lurches forward.

I haven't been this close to him since I was thirteen years old. I memorize every detail. The sharp line of his jaw. The shadow of stubble. The way his fingers tap once, twice, against his knee.

"You're the Luca girl," he says. His voice is low, measured. The same voice he used the night he took my father's soul.

I don't answer.

"The father's debt was settled," he continues, like he's explaining something to a child. "The terms were clear. Your family owed. I collected."

"You collected," I repeat. "You collected my father's soul. Is that what you call it?"

He blinks. Once. "The Concordat has rules. Your father signed. He understood the terms."

"My father was poor and desperate," I snap. "He didn't have a choice. Nobody in the Enclave has a choice. You make sure of that."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe. "You speak boldly for someone in a carriage that's taking you away from everything you know."

"Everything I know is gone," I say. "Thanks to you."

He's quiet for a long moment. "What do you see?" he asks suddenly.

I freeze. "I'm sorry?"

"The way you're staring. Like you can see something no one else can."

He doesn't know. He can't know. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying."

"You're lying," he repeats, and there's something like amusement in his voice now. "I can always tell when someone's lying. 

You look me in the eye when you're telling the truth. When you lie, you look away."

"Then you'll know I'm not lying when I say I want you dead."

He laughs. Quiet, barely more than an exhale. "I'm sure you do. Most people do, eventually."

"Then why aren't you?"

He cocks his head. "Because they're not as smart as they think they are. They try to kill me, and they fail."

"You really are a monster."

"Maybe," he says. "But monsters don't exist because they want to. They're made. You should know that."

The Spires are different from the Enclave. The air is cold and clean. Everything shines. Everything gleams. Everything is so clean it makes my skin crawl.

Dante leads me through a mansion that could swallow my entire neighborhood. 

Past servants who don't meet my eyes. Past guards with weapons at their hips.

He stops in front of a door and pushes it open. The room is beautiful—high ceilings, a bed that could fit four people, windows that look out over the city.

"You'll stay here," Dante says. "You'll be provided for. You'll be treated well, as long as you cooperate."

"Cooperate with what?" I ask. "I'm not a debt to be collected. I'm a person."

"Can't I?" He tilts his head. "I've done much worse than this, Seraphina. You know that."

The air leaves my lungs. "You don't remember. You don't even remember."

"Remember what?"

"My father's face," I say, and my voice breaks on the last word. "You took his soul, and you didn't even look at me. You didn't even know I was there."

He's quiet. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. "I don't remember every collection. There are too many. They blur together."

"Because it doesn't matter to you," I say. "Because we're just numbers to you. Just currency."

I expect hi

m to argue. He doesn't.

"That's the worst part, isn't it?" he says. "That you're right."

He turns and walks out. The door clicks shut behind him, and I hear the lock engage.

I'm alone in a gilded cage, choking on the smell of flowers and polished marble, wondering how I'm supposed to kill a man who already knows he's damned…