The grimoire had a location.
Finally.
After three days of hunting shadows and burning through favors he didn't have.
Bharat stood in the safehouse—Mira's blood still on the floor from where they'd dragged her in two hours ago, Peacock across from him with that sharp, unreadable look she wore like armor.
The room smelled like copper and cigarette smoke. Harsh light from a single bulb turned everything the color of old bruises. Outside, the city hummed—traffic, voices, the distant wail of sirens that never seemed to stop in this part of town.
"The Royal Temple," Peacock said.
"Inner sanctum. Gold vault."
She said it like she was ordering coffee. Casual. Easy.
Bharat knew better.
Nothing about the Royal Temple was easy.
"How certain?" he asked.
"Ninety percent."
"And the other ten?"
"The part where we all die trying to get in."
She pulled out a cigarette—didn't light it, just rolled it between her fingers like she was deciding whether the nicotine was worth the lung damage. Her eyes stayed on him. Sharp. Measuring.
"The temple has three entry protocols," she continued. "Public. Diplomatic. Sacred."
"Which one gets us to the vault?"
"Sacred."
"And?"
Her smile was thin. The kind that didn't promise anything good.
"And sacred entry requires devotion."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you kneel."
The word landed like a fist.
Kneel.
Bharat felt something cold slide down his spine. Not fear. Worse. Memory.
He'd knelt once before—back in that first contract with the system, when it forced him to bow to a man who'd stolen his sister's future. The marble had been cold against his knees. His pride had cracked like glass. He'd told himself never again.
The system had other plans.
It always did.
"How long?" His voice came out flat.
"Full prostration. Three minutes."
"In front of who?"
"The High Priest. The Court. Everyone who matters in this city."
Peacock leaned back against the wall, watching him with that calculating look she'd perfected over years of playing both sides. She knew what she was asking. Knew what it would cost him.
"You're asking me to humiliate myself."
"I'm asking you to save your sister."
"Same thing."
"No."
She stubbed out the unlit cigarette. Ground it into the table like she was making a point.
"Humiliation is when you have a choice. This is survival."
Bharat looked at Mira—unconscious on the couch, her breathing shallow, the Mark of Recall pulsing faintly on her wrist like a countdown he couldn't stop. Ayesha was in the next room, sedated, her own mark growing darker by the hour.
The countdown in his vision:
[TIME REMAINING: -22:14:37]
Negative. He was already dead by the system's accounting. Just hadn't stopped moving yet.
"What's the catch?" he asked.
"Besides the kneeling?"
"Besides that."
Peacock's expression shifted. Something flickered behind her eyes—hesitation, maybe. Or warning.
"The sacred entry isn't just theater," she said. "It's a binding. When you prostrate before the temple, you're not just showing respect. You're making an oath."
"What kind of oath?"
"To serve the divine will without question. To surrender your agency to the temple's judgment."
"For how long?"
"Until they release you."
"Which is?"
"Never, usually."
Bharat laughed. It came out sharp and bitter, like broken glass in his throat.
"So I kneel, I swear my life away, and then what? They just let me walk into the gold vault? Take the grimoire? Maybe grab a souvenir on the way out?"
"No."
Peacock stood. Moved to the window, looking out at the city lights that spread below like fallen stars—each one a life that had nothing to do with this mess, each one blissfully unaware that people like them existed.
"You'd have to break the oath."
"While I'm still inside the temple."
"Yes."
"That's suicide."
"That's the job."
She turned back. Her face was unreadable in the harsh light, all sharp angles and shadows that made her look older than she was.
"The temple has wards," she continued. "Divine protections. Break an oath inside the sanctum, and they activate. You'd have maybe thirty seconds before the temple itself tries to kill you."
"Tries?"
"Succeeds, usually."
"How many people have survived breaking a sacred oath inside the Royal Temple?"
Peacock's silence was answer enough.
Zero.
No one had ever walked out alive.
Bharat looked at the countdown again. Watched the negative numbers tick down—each second taking him further into debt with a system that didn't forgive, didn't forget, just collected.
[TIME REMAINING: -22:15:09]
[OBLIGATIONS PENDING: 7]
[PERFECT COMPLIANCE REQUIRED FOR RESET]
[CURRENT COMPLIANCE RATE: 14%]
The system was mocking him now. Fourteen percent. He'd saved Arjun—maybe. Hadn't heard from the extraction team yet. Kavita was safe—for now. But the rest? Ayesha, Mira, the court appeal, the midnight raid?
Impossible odds.
Negative time.
And now this.
Kneel before the temple that wanted him dead.
Swear an oath he'd have to break.
All to grab a book that might not even be there.
"There's another option," Peacock said quietly.
"I'm listening."
"We don't go for the grimoire. We focus on the girls. Get them out. Run. Disappear."
"And the Mark of Recall?"
"They die in three days instead of tonight."
"That's not an option."
"It's the smart option."
"I didn't ask for smart."
Peacock nodded slowly. Like she'd expected that answer. Maybe even respected it.
"The temple opens its sacred entrance at dawn," she said. "Five AM. You'd need to be there, cleaned, dressed in white. The High Priest conducts the ritual himself."
"And the kneeling?"
"Three minutes. Forehead to marble. Absolute silence."
"What happens if I speak?"
"They kill you on the spot."
"And if I don't kneel low enough?"
"They kill you slower."
Bharat looked at his hands. They weren't shaking. That was something. He'd expected them to shake—expected some physical manifestation of the anger burning through his chest like acid.
But they were steady.
Calm.
Like they belonged to someone else.
"I'll need a team," he said.
"For what?"
"Extraction. The second I grab the grimoire, the wards activate. I'll need people ready to pull me out."
"That's suicide for them too."
"I know."
"You think anyone will sign up for that?"
Bharat thought about the twelve people he'd recruited. The ones he'd made promises to—real promises, backed by his rapidly depleting lifespan. Some of them owed him. Some of them believed in him.
Some of them were just desperate enough to try.
"I'll find them," he said.
Peacock studied him for a long moment. Then she reached into her jacket and pulled out a small envelope—cream-colored paper, sealed with red wax.
"What's this?"
"Your invitation. Sacred entry. Dawn tomorrow."
"You already knew I'd say yes."
"I know you."
She handed it over. The wax seal was warm—like it had been pressed moments ago, like the temple already knew he was coming.
"One more thing," Peacock said.
"What?"
**"The oath you'll swear—it's not just words. The temple will test you. Make you prove your devotion before you even reach the vault."
"How?"
"I don't know. It's different for everyone. But it finds your weakness. The thing you're most afraid to lose."
She looked past him, at Mira on the couch.
"It'll make you choose."
"Between what?"
"Between her and the mission."
"That's not a choice."
"Exactly."
Peacock moved toward the door. Stopped with her hand on the knob.
"You know this is insane, right?" she said.
"I know."
"You're going to die in that temple."
"Probably."
"And you're doing it anyway."
"Yes."
She smiled. Small, sad, the kind of smile people wear at funerals.
"Then good luck, Bharat."
"I don't believe in luck."
"Neither do I."
"What do you believe in?"
She looked back at him one last time.
"Stubbornness. And spite."
"That's all?"
"Sometimes it's enough."
Then she was gone. The door clicked shut. The sound echoed in the empty safehouse like a countdown ticking down.
Bharat looked at the invitation in his hand. The red wax seal seemed to pulse in the dim light—like a heartbeat, like something alive.
He broke it open.
Inside, a single line:
"The temple awaits. Bring nothing. Expect everything."
Bharat crumpled the paper. Let it fall to the floor.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[NEW OBLIGATION DETECTED: Sacred Oath Protocol]
[WARNING: Oath-breaking carries divine penalty]
[ESTIMATED SURVIVAL RATE: 0.4%]
[PROCEED? Y/N]
He didn't need to answer. The system already knew.
It had known from the beginning.
This whole thing—the contracts, the obligations, the countdown—it wasn't trying to save him.
It was sculpting him.
Into someone who'd kneel when he had to.
And break when he couldn't.
Bharat looked at Mira. Her chest rose and fell—shallow, fragile, like she was breathing on borrowed time.
They all were.
"Dawn," he said to the empty room.
"I'll be there."
Outside, the city kept humming. Oblivious. The sirens wailed. Someone screamed. Life went on.
And Bharat prepared to kneel.
One last time.