The notification pinged on the guild hall's main screen just after noon.
I was sitting at a corner table, logging the morning's patrol data. Lucian Voss was two tables over, reviewing a procurement manifest. He didn't look up at the sound. I did.
**Dark Flame Guild — Member Status Update.** The header was bold, administrative red. **Dean Holt (C-Rank Shield Guard). Imprint degradation confirmed via Association medical review. Classification: End-stage Imprint Decay Syndrome. Irreversible. Guild membership terminated effective immediately.**
The words sat there. Black on white.
I set my stylus down. The tip clicked against the tabletop. I counted three breaths. In. Hold. Out.
"Harsh."
Lucian's voice came from my left. He hadn't moved from his manifest. His eyes were still on the screen in front of him, but his head was tilted slightly toward the guild hall's main display.
"What is?" I kept my voice flat. A question of mild interest.
"Decay Syndrome hitting a C-Rank shield. That's usually an age-related decline. He was, what, thirty-two?"
"Thirty-four."
"You knew him."
"We worked the same outpost once. Briefly." I picked up the stylus again. Scrolled my patrol log up, then down. The numbers blurred. "He was competent."
"Competent people don't usually get hit with end-stage decay."
"No."
I could feel him watching me now. Not directly. His reflection was a faint smudge in the dark glass of my tablet screen. He was waiting for me to say more. To offer the appropriate shade of professional sympathy. *What a loss. Such a shame.*
I closed the patrol log. Opened the supply requisition form. My right hand was cold. I pressed it against my thigh under the table.
A Dawn Bell arbitrator sat three tables down, reviewing dispute briefs. He looked up once when Dean's name hit the screen. Then he returned to his papers without expression.
On the main screen, the notification updated. A security feed still appeared below the text—Dean Holt leaving the Dark Flame headquarters. The timestamp was from this morning, 09:47. He carried a single duffel bag. His shoulders were straight. He didn't look back at the building.
Then he did.
He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, turned his head just enough for the camera to catch his profile. His lips moved. Two syllables. Clear, even through the grainy feed.
*Deserved.*
He said it to the empty air. To himself. Then he walked out of frame.
The guild hall was quiet. A few hunters at the far end were talking in low tones, glancing at the screen. Someone muttered something about bad luck.
Lucian shifted in his chair. The sound of fabric against wood. "He knew."
I didn't answer.
"He knew it was coming. That look—he wasn't surprised. He was settling a debt."
"Maybe." I typed a random string into the requisition form. Deleted it. "Or he was just angry."
"Angry people don't look that calm."
He was right. Dean Holt's face had been empty. Not resigned. Not defeated. Just… settled.
I had expected something else. A fight. A plea. A last-ditch attempt to call in favors. I'd prepared for that—for the possibility he might name suspects, point fingers, force an earlier investigation. I'd mapped the contingency.
I hadn't prepared for him to walk away clean.
A hollow space opened behind my ribs. Not guilt. Guilt would have been familiar. This was colder. Sharper. Like I'd reached for a handhold and found air.
I shut it down. Locked the feeling away behind a door marked *Later*.
My notebook was in my inner jacket pocket. I didn't take it out. I didn't need to. The list was etched behind my eyes.
**Dean Holt. C-Rank Shield Guard. Position #6.**
*Completed.*
The words didn't land with weight. They just were. A fact. A step.
I felt the shift inside me—a subtle click, like a gear engaging. My healing pool didn't drain. It… settled. The ceiling lowered by a fraction I could feel in my bones. A permanent reduction. The cost, logged.
**Healing Pool: 98.7%.**
Two percent gone. One name.
"You're quiet."
Lucian had turned now. He was looking at me directly. His expression was neutral. Curious, not accusing.
"Thinking about the paperwork," I said. "If it happens here, to one of ours. The administrative tail is long."
"That's what you're thinking about."
"It's my job to think about it." I met his gaze. Held it. "Temporary healers handle the medical follow-ups when a hunter's imprint destabilizes. I'll be the one filling out the Association forms."
"You've done it before."
"Twice. Both times it was age-related. Slow decline. This is… abrupt."
"It is." He leaned back, his chair creaking softly. "The Association will investigate. Anomalous decay in a healthy C-Rank—they'll want a cause. They'll interview everyone who had recent contact with him."
"Standard protocol."
"You had contact."
"Briefly. Months ago." I kept my voice even. "I doubt I'll be a priority."
"Maybe not." He didn't look away. "Still. Unpleasant way to start the week."
He went back to his manifest. The conversation was over. He'd gotten what he wanted—he'd watched my reaction. I didn't know what he'd seen.
I stood. My legs were steady. "I have a supply run to the eastern depot. I'll be back before evening patrol."
He nodded without looking up. "Watch the road. There's grit on the south curve—maintenance hasn't cleared it."
A useful piece of information. Offered casually. I stored it.
"Thanks."
I walked out of the guild hall. The air outside was crisp, carrying the distant scent of ozone from the city's barrier generators. I didn't go to the eastern depot. I turned left, into a narrow alley between the guild's outer wall and a closed repair shop.
I took out my notebook.
The leather cover was worn smooth at the edges. I flipped it open to the third page. The list. Six names, written in my own precise hand. I uncapped my pen.
A line through Dean Holt's name. Black ink. Solid. Final.
I stared at the mark. The hollow feeling returned, sharper this time. I pressed my right hand against the cold brick wall beside me. The chill seeped into my skin, grounding.
*He knew.*
Dean Holt had looked into the camera and called himself deserved. He'd accepted the sentence. Why? Guilt over Ana? Or just the bitter recognition that his silence had a price, and the bill had finally arrived?
I didn't know. I didn't need to know. The result was the same.
I closed the notebook. Slid it back into my pocket. As I did, my fingers brushed against the small, foil-wrapped packet Sol Mercer had given me. I hadn't thrown it away. It was still there, a quiet lump against my ribs.
My phone vibrated.
I pulled it out. Another guild notification—this one from the inter-guild alert feed. **Dark Flame Internal Bulletin: Sol Mercer (C-Rank Archer). Medical leave mandated effective immediately. Marked decline in imprint stability affecting precision. Current operational rating: D. Treatment protocol pending.**
So. It was accelerating.
The twenty-one-day decay window wasn't a guess. It was a timeline. He was slipping. And he knew it.
I put the phone away. Started walking toward the eastern depot after all. The grit on the south curve was exactly where Lucian said it would be. I slowed my pace, navigating the loose stones.
My mind ran numbers. Dean Holt—complete. Sol Mercer—in progress. Lyra Wren—pending. The next three names after that, waiting.
The investigation into Dean's decay would begin soon. I'd need to be ready. My alibi was solid—no direct contact in months. My secondary imprint trace was nested, hidden. A routine scanner wouldn't catch it. But an Association deep scan, the kind they might run on a healer who'd treated him…
That was a risk. A measurable one.
I reached the depot, collected the sealed box of field medical supplies. The clerk barely glanced at my authorization token. I signed the log, hefted the box, and turned to leave.
My phone vibrated again. Twice.
The first was another alert. **Hunter Association Case File Opened: IDS-447. Subject: Dean Holt. Classification: Anomalous Decay. Investigation phase initiated.**
The second was a direct message. From an unknown number.
*Check your formal inbox. Tonight.*
I deleted the message. The sender was probably Kiran Vale. He'd warned me the investigation would come. He'd also implied he could shape which way it looked first.
I carried the box back to Iron Edge. The afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the training yard. I passed a group of D-Rank hunters sparring. Their movements were sharp, confident. Unbroken.
I stored the supplies in the clinic locker. Logged the receipt. The routine was familiar, muscle memory.
At exactly 18:00, I sat down at the communal terminal in the guild's admin annex. Logged in with my temp-healer credentials. The formal inbox loaded.
There it was. An official Hunter Association seal. The subject line: **Imprint Decay Syndrome Anomalous Case Investigation — Cooperation Inquiry Notice.**
I opened it.
Standard language. *Pursuant to Association Charter, Section 12…* A list of names followed. Hunters and support personnel who had recorded contact with Dean Holt in the ninety days prior to his diagnosis. My name was there. Seventh on the list.
The instruction was clear: report for a voluntary statement within seventy-two hours. Location: Association Central Annex, Room 412. Bring any relevant logs.
Voluntary. For now.
I printed the notice. The paper was warm from the printer. I folded it once, precisely, and put it in my notebook.
"Trouble?"
Lucian was leaning against the doorframe of the annex. He had a cup of something steaming in his hand. He'd changed out of his field gear into dark trousers and a grey sweater. He looked like he'd been there awhile.
"Association inquiry." I kept my tone matter-of-fact. "They're interviewing anyone who had contact with Dean Holt. I'm on the list."
"Expected."
"Yes."
"You'll go?"
"I have to. It's voluntary, but skipping it flags your file."
He took a sip from his cup. His eyes were on the folded edge of the notice sticking out of my notebook. "What will you tell them?"
"The truth. I worked a joint outpost rotation with him four months ago. No sustained contact since. No observed imprint instability at that time." I stood, sliding the notebook into my jacket. "It's straightforward."
"Is it?"
The question hung in the air. Not challenging. Just… open.
"Yes." I met his gaze. "It is."
He nodded slowly. "Room 412. That's Merrick's office."
"You know the layout."
"I've been there. Dr. Elias Merrick handles anomalous decay cases. He's thorough. He'll ask you about your own imprint stability. Standard screening for healers who've been near a decay source."
"I'm stable."
"I know." He said it simply. Like it was a fact he'd already verified. "Still. He'll scan you. A standard diagnostic sweep. It'll take ten minutes. You should be prepared for that."
My right hand went cold. A standard diagnostic sweep wouldn't catch the secondary trace. Probably. But if the scanner was calibrated finely, or if Merrick decided to run a deeper layer…
"Thanks for the warning." I kept my voice even.
"It's not a warning." He pushed off the doorframe. "It's data. You operate better with data."
He walked away, down the hall. His footsteps were quiet on the polished floor.
I stood there for a full minute. Counting breaths. Mapping contingencies.
If the scan flagged me, I'd be detained for further testing. That was protocol. I'd need an exit route. Two options: refuse the scan—which would trigger an automatic suspension—or let it happen and hope the nesting held.
Neither was good.
I left the annex. The evening air was colder now. I walked toward the temporary housing block, my mind running scenarios. Adjusting variables. The investigation was a new pressure. A clock I hadn't fully accounted for.
As I reached my door, my phone vibrated again. This time, it was a call. The screen showed a blocked number.
I answered. Didn't speak.
"Vera." Sol Mercer's voice. It was thinner than I remembered. Tired. "You saw the bulletin."
"I did."
"They're grounding me. 'Treatment pending.'" A dry laugh. It turned into a cough. "They don't have a treatment. They're just waiting to see how far it drops."
I unlocked my door. Stepped inside. Closed it behind me. "Where are you?"
"Dark Flame infirmary. Third floor. It's… quiet." He paused. I could hear the faint hum of medical equipment in the background. "They asked me about you."
The air in my room felt suddenly still. "Why?"
"The investigation. They're cross-referencing everyone Holt contacted. Your name came up from the old outpost logs. They asked if I'd noticed anything… unusual. About you."
"What did you say?"
"I said you were a professional. That you did your job." Another pause. Longer this time. "That's all I said."
He was telling the truth. I could hear it in the weariness. He wasn't trying to trap me. He was… reporting. Like he felt he owed me the information.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't." The word was sharp. Then his voice softened. "Just… be careful, Battery Lady. Merrick isn't like the others. He looks for patterns."
He hung up.
I stood in the dark room. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, slicing through the narrow window.
Patterns. That's what Lucian had meant, too. Merrick looked for patterns. And I'd just left a pattern—Dean Holt, gone. Sol Mercer, falling. Lyra Wren, still standing.
For now.
I opened my notebook again. Stared at the list. The single black line through Dean Holt's name.
The hollow feeling was back. I named it this time: isolation. The space between what I had done and what I would still do. A canyon no one else could cross.
My phone buzzed on the desk. A new email alert. Association seal again.
I opened it.
**Supplemental Notice: Inquiry Timing.** *Your scheduled statement has been moved forward. Please report to Room 412, Association Central Annex, tomorrow at 09:00. A standard imprint stability scan will be administered as part of the interview process. Failure to comply will result in temporary suspension of guild privileges.*
Tomorrow. Not seventy-two hours.
They were accelerating.
I closed the email. Looked at my right hand. It lay pale and still on the desk. I flexed the fingers. Cold.
The scan was tomorrow. Merrick was thorough. The secondary trace was nested, but not invisible.
I had twelve hours to decide: run, or walk into the room and let him look.
My notebook lay open. The list stared back. Four names remained.
I closed the cover.
The hook was set. The line was pulling taut. And for the first time, I couldn't see the end of the reel.
*Power Stone if Vera's still ruining lives the way you want her to.*