The first thing people notice during a life-year transfer is the silence.

  Not the chanting. Not the candles. Not the priest standing in the center of the circle like a patient executioner.

  It’s the silence of the person who is about to give part of their life away.

  I’ve overseen dozens of transfers. That silence is always the same.

  The donor stood across the chalk circle from me, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He couldn’t have been older than twenty. His shoulders were broad from labor, but the rest of him looked thin in the candlelight, like a sketch someone hadn’t quite finished.

  I opened my ledger and dipped my pen into the ink.

  “State your name,” I said.

  “Joryn Hale.”

  His voice sounded steady. That surprised me.

  I wrote the name down in careful script. Names matter in the Bureau’s records. Once they enter the ledger, they become part of the kingdom’s memory.

  “Do you understand the terms of the contract?” I asked.

  Joryn nodded.

  The priest beside him cleared his throat.

  “You must speak,” the priest said gently. “Consent must be heard.”

  Joryn swallowed. “Yes. I understand.”

  I continued writing.

  Across the circle stood the buyer, a merchant named Tomas Rell. His coat alone probably cost more than the eighty crowns he was paying for Joryn’s years.

  Ten years.

  That was the amount written in the contract between them.

  Ten years of a man’s life for eighty crowns and the promise of cleared debts.

  I had seen worse trades.

  Still, something in my chest tightened as I finished recording the entry. I closed the ledger.

  “Proceed,” I said.

  The priest began the ritual.

  The words were ancient—older than the Bureau, older than the kingdom itself. I had memorized them during my training, though auditors were never required to speak them. Our job was simpler.

  Observe. Record. Ensure the rules were followed.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The chalk circle brightened faintly as the ritual gathered.

  Joryn inhaled sharply.

  Then the silver threads appeared.

  They rose slowly from his chest, thin as spider silk and glowing faintly in the candlelight.

  The first time I witnessed a transfer during training, I thought it looked beautiful.

  I don’t think that anymore.

  The threads drifted across the circle toward the crystal vessel waiting in the center.

  Joryn’s back bent slightly as they left him.

  Ten years does not look like much.

  But when you watch it happen, you understand that ten years is everything.

  The threads gathered inside the crystal.

  The priest murmured the closing words of the ritual and placed his hand over the vessel to seal the transfer.

  Then the crystal flickered.

  I froze.

  It wasn’t a candle flicker.

  The light inside the vessel flashed sharply, like glass cracking under frost.

  The silver threads inside twisted violently for a moment before settling again.

  The priest’s hand tightened around the vessel.

  His eyes flicked to me.

  “Continue,” I said quietly.

  The ritual finished.

  The priest lifted the crystal and handed it to Tomas Rell.

  The merchant smiled as he accepted it.

  Behind him, Joryn sagged slightly where he stood. Ten years had already begun to leave their mark.

  I returned to my ledger and recorded the transfer exactly as the law required.

  But the flicker in the crystal stayed in my mind.

  Magic does not flicker.

  Not when it follows the rules.

  Velis never truly sleeps.

  Even after midnight, the city hums with quiet desperation.

  From my window above the Bureau office, I could hear the distant noise of the Year Exchange district. Voices carrying through the night. Deals being struck in murmured numbers.

  People bargaining with the only currency they had left.

  Time.

  I sat at my desk reviewing the city’s transfer records for the day.

  Most entries looked exactly as expected.

  Five years sold for rent.

  Three years sold for medical debt.

  Two years sold for passage out of the city.

  I moved steadily through the pages until one entry made my pen stop.

  Buyer: Severin Caul

  Years gained: 47

  That alone wasn’t strange.

  But the donor entry beneath it made the air leave my lungs.

  Donor: Kael Ardyn

  Origin: Duskfall

  Years removed: 0

  I stared at the line.

  Then I checked it again.

  The ink had not changed.

  Forty-seven years transferred.

  Zero years removed.

  That was impossible.

  Years cannot come from nowhere.

  They must come from someone.

  That is the first law of the system.

  I turned the page back and forth, checking the numbers again.

  The record did not change.

  My stomach tightened.

  Someone had broken the rules.

  Or worse.

  Someone had proven the rules were wrong.