He left the tomb with a heavier step and a lighter chest, carrying both the amulet and a new sense of the world’s fragile accounting. From then on, when coin glinted in a stall or when a bargain tempted his quick fingers, he touched his throat first—feeling for the steady weight of his name—and he considered what would happen if all at once everything taken wanted its balance paid back.

Dusk found him at the rim of the tomb, the returned amulet whole upon his palm. The woman stood where shadow met stone, her linen hair unbraided, her smile tired but satisfied.

Her smile was not cruel. It was inevitable. “Through the same hands that took it,” she said. “Through the same breath you used to lie.”

“You took my name,” she said. “You traded it for coins.”

Her voice was the prism through which the past bent. He remembered the old woman at the stall, the way she'd reached for his wrist as if to weigh his soul. He had pulled away, laughing, the amulet caught in his palm. He had not seen the little girl she cradled then, not properly. He had not listened when the woman spat a curse under her breath and pressed the amulet to the girl's brow.