The toc came from afar.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't threatening. It was constant.
Marikka felt it through the cobblestones even before seeing its source: a dry, always identical tap, crossing the stone like a reminder. It did not have the irregular quality of human hands. It was a gesture repeated by a function.
toc.
Aurelian tightened his jaw. Marikka understood this by the way his forearm changed tension under her fingers. Not pain. Anticipation.
Cedric, half a step ahead, stopped and turned his head, searching with his eyes for something she was already reading with her skin. His lips moved: do you feel it too?
Marikka barely shook her head and made a short gesture: not like you.
They approached without speeding up. In Arcanum, running attracted the wrong kind of attention.
The line was longer than it looked from afar. Ordinary people, hands empty or loaded, tired faces. No obvious fear. No urgency. A practical, accepted order. Marikka ran her fingers along the wall next to the invisible lane and felt the stone vibrate differently: smoothed by repeated passage, worn down methodically.
toc.
The table was simple. Too simple to be harmless.
Thick wood, worn edges, surface shiny from constant cleaning. On top, a small metallic press that went down and up with the same pressure every time. Beside it, a box of thin sheets and a basin of warm wax.
Receipts.
Behind the table was a man in a clean cloak. Not austere, not rich. Adequate. His hands moved with perfect economy: he took the sheet, listened to two sentences, toc, handed over the receipt, pointed to the passage. No hesitation. No curiosity.
A function.
Marikka did not touch the table. She stopped one step back, where the toc vibration was clear but not invasive. Under her feet, she felt something colder, like a hidden grid responding to the gesture from above. Not runes. Not glyphs. A grid that demanded not faith, but conformity.
Aurelian swallowed. His breath grew shorter. Marikka squeezed his arm and felt the incompatibility grow, as if that part of the city were too well-regulated for him.
Cedric turned to the man at the table before she could stop him. He smiled—the smile he used when he didn't know which language to speak and tried all of them.
"Excuse me," he said. "Is this mandatory?"
The man looked up. Not surprised. Not annoyed. He evaluated them like one evaluates an off-scale measurement that can still fit on the sheet.
"Here?" he replied. "It is recommended."
Cedric tilted his head. "And if one doesn't—"
toc.
The sheet went down, the press came up. The man pointed to the side lane with a gentle finger.
"Then you pass over there."
Marikka felt the difference without looking. Over there the cobblestones vibrated more roughly, broken. A passage that didn't lead where you wanted to go, but where those without a receipt ended up.
Cedric pressed his lips together. Marikka touched his elbow: let it be.
She took a step forward.
The man looked at her again. This time a little longer. Not at her eyes: at her hands, her posture, the way she stood still. Marikka perceived a micro-adjustment in the grid under her feet, as if a column had been shifted by half a space.
"Name?" he asked.
Marikka did not answer immediately.
Aurelian took half a step forward, then swayed. His hand searched for something in the air and didn't find it. Marikka supported him.
Then Aurelian looked up with difficulty. His fingers closed for an instant on Marikka's wrist, just tight enough to hurt.
He shook his head. Only once.
It wasn't a plea.
It was an order that tasted of surrender.
Cedric cleared his throat. "We are passing through. We need to—"
The man raised a hand, without interrupting. "We don't register needs here. We register transits."
Marikka raised Cedric's notebook and wrote, in firm handwriting:
RECEIPT FOR WHAT?
The man read it. He nodded. "For presence."
toc.
A sheet went down. Marikka didn't touch it, but she felt the paper vibrate like something new seeking an anchor. The grid under the cobblestones responded with a brief impulse.
Serian trembled in the case. Not strong. Attentive.
Aurelian leaned forward, a suppressed groan. Marikka felt his body react to the press's gesture as an incompatible command.
"Not him," Cedric said, harder than he intended. "He's sick."
The man looked at all three of them, then gestured with his head toward a bench nearby. "Sit there. Don't block the flow."
It was not a concession. It was optimization.
Marikka guided Aurelian to the bench. As soon as he sat down, his breathing stabilized a degree. Enough not to fall. Not enough to lie.
Cedric returned to the table. He wrote quickly:
IF WE DON'T SIGN—
Marikka took his wrist. We don't sign.
She pointed to the sheet with two fingers, without touching it: Ask.
Cedric swallowed. "What happens if we take the receipt?"
The man smiled slightly. "Nothing."
toc.
"And if we don't take it?"
The finger pointed over there again. "Nothing."
Cedric scoffed. "Then what's the difference?"
The man took the time to look at the line. The table. The city flowing past.
"The difference," he said, "is where you can go next."
Marikka felt the truth of that sentence vibrate in the stone. Not a threat. A description.
She stood up from the bench and returned to the table. She did not touch the paper. She did not touch the press. Instead, she placed two fingers on the edge of the table, just enough.
The grid beneath Arcanum responded. A brief impulse. Incomplete registration.
Serian trembled again. This time with a hint of disagreement.
The man stiffened. Just a shadow. Enough.
"I didn't take anything," Marikka wrote in the notebook. JUST PASSED.
The man nodded slowly. "Then you are... noted."
He pushed the receipt toward her, but not close enough to touch her. "It is valid until the next intersection."
toc.
Cedric looked at Marikka. "And after that?"
"After that depends on who reads you."
Marikka wrote a single word:
WHO?
The man smiled, thinly. "Here? Many."
He pointed to the street in front of them. "But the ones that count... they count first."
The toc resumed, identical.
Marikka guided Aurelian past the lane. Not over there. Here.
The stone under their feet changed its response, as if a path had just opened by inertia.
When she left the table behind, Marikka felt something remain behind.
Not a clear trace.
A subtraction.
As if a part of her step had been noted elsewhere—and now she was missing it.
They hadn't signed.
But they had passed.
And somewhere, beneath Arcanum, someone had just taken note of how.