The summons came through official channels. A crisp notification on my guild tablet, time-stamped and flagged for immediate acknowledgment. No personal message from Lucian. Just a meeting request, location: his office at Iron Edge headquarters, 1600 hours.
I acknowledged it.
My right hand was cold. I pressed it flat against the thigh of my trousers as I walked the polished corridor. The administrative wing smelled of lemon polish and recycled air. Healing Pool: 67.4%. No change since the Empathic Fracture. No change in three weeks, which was the problem.
Lucian's door was open.
He was seated behind a steel-framed desk, two documents laid out precisely before him. He looked up as I reached the threshold. "Vera. Come in."
I stepped inside. The door didn't close behind me. He hadn't moved to shut it. A choice.
"Take a seat." He gestured to the chair opposite him. Not a guest chair. An interview chair, same height as his. I sat.
For a moment he just looked at me. Not assessing. Observing. His left hand held a stylus, motionless. Then he tapped the first document. "Core membership contract. Iron Edge's standard package for healers transitioning from probationary status."
He slid it toward me. The paper was crisp, the text dense with clauses.
"Your performance metrics are consistent," he said. His voice was even, personnel-file neutral. "Healing output meets E-rank benchmarks. You've logged two successful rift extractions—the B-rank Empathic Fracture and the C-rank Shattered Grove before that. Zero disciplinary incidents. Peer reviews from your rotation squads are positive. No complaints."
He paused. Let the data hang.
"Guild Master Kessler reviewed the file this morning. He's approved the transition." Lucian's eyes stayed on mine. "It's a genuine offer. Permanent contract. Full guild benefits. Access to our internal intelligence network, mission archives, priority equipment requisition. You'd stop being a temp."
I didn't touch the contract. "What's the catch?"
"No catch." He didn't smile. "Iron Edge needs reliable healers. You've demonstrated reliability. The math is straightforward."
He was telling the truth. I could hear it in the flatness of his delivery. No hidden threat, no testing edge. He was offering me a place. A real one.
My right hand stayed cold.
"Why now?" I asked.
"Your probationary period was ninety days. Today is day eighty-seven. We schedule these reviews early to allow for negotiation." He tilted his head slightly. "Is there something you'd want to negotiate?"
The question was genuine. He actually wanted to know.
I looked at the second document. A personnel assessment form, filled out in clean, precise handwriting. His handwriting. I could see my name at the top, a series of checkboxes and scores. Above average. Consistent. Reliable.
"No," I said. "The terms are standard."
"They are." He picked up the stylus again. Began rotating it slowly between his fingers. Not fidgeting. Measuring. "There is one observational note, though. Not a mark against you. Just something I logged."
I waited.
"Your healing energy," he said, still looking at the stylus. "It's weaker than three months ago. I noticed during the rift extraction. You were slower."
The air in the room didn't change. The lemon polish smell didn't change. My breathing didn't change.
He glanced up. "You healed a crystal-laceration on Ren's arm. Took twelve seconds. Standard heal for that injury at E-rank is eight. Your output was measured at thirty-four percent below your baseline from your first week with Iron Edge."
He set the stylus down. "I've reviewed all your mission logs. The decline is gradual. Consistent. About a ten percent drop per month. No one else has flagged it because your baseline was high. You started strong. But the trend is there."
He wasn't accusing. He was reciting data.
"Is there a medical condition?" he asked. "Something that would affect your imprint stability? Guild healers have access to confidential treatment. No impact on your contract."
I kept my hands still on my knees. "No condition."
"Alright." He accepted it. Didn't push. "Then it's likely fatigue. Or stress. Both are common in temp healers. The core contract includes mandatory downtime between high-risk missions. That should help."
He picked up the contract, turned to the signature page. Reached for a pen.
"The offer stands," he said. "Regardless of the energy decline. Your reliability outweighs the metric."
He held out the pen.
I looked at it. A simple black pen. The door behind me was still open. I could hear faint voices down the hall, the hum of a printer. A normal afternoon at guild headquarters.
My Healing Pool: 67.4%. It had been 91.3% three months ago. Roughly eight percent per month. He'd calculated it exactly.
He knew.
Not what I was. But that I was fading. He'd given it a number, a timeline. He'd quantified my expiration date.
I took the pen. My fingers were steady. The metal was cool.
"I need to read it first," I said.
"Of course." He leaned back. "Take your time."
I skimmed the clauses. Standard guild language: exclusivity, non-disclosure, liability waivers. Benefits: salary, housing stipend, medical, pension. Access to intelligence network—subject to clearance levels. Mandatory rest periods: forty-eight hours after any A-rank exposure, twenty-four after B-rank.
Page four. Termination clauses.
My eyes caught on a sub-section. "Guild-initiated termination requires review by a panel of three senior members. Except in cases of verified imprint degradation posing operational risk. Then the guild master may act unilaterally."
I looked up.
Lucian was watching me. He'd seen where I'd stopped reading. "That's a safety clause," he said. "For healers who push too hard, burn out, become a danger to their squads. It's rarely invoked. Usually there's a medical intervention first."
He said it like it was a reassurance.
It was a blueprint.
If I signed, and my pool kept dropping, and someone finally ran a detailed scan—not the basic field check, but a full imprint resonance workup—they'd see the decay. Not the cause. Just the effect. And under that clause, Guild Master Kessler could terminate me on the spot. No panel. No appeal.
Lucian knew the numbers. He'd just given me the countdown.
"Why offer this," I asked, "if you see the decline?"
"Because you're still the most reliable healer I've recruited this year." He didn't blink. "And because if you're hiding a medical issue, forcing you to hide it harder won't fix it. The contract gets you into the system. The system has safeguards."
"Safeguards."
"Treatment. Leave. Options other than collapse." He held my gaze. "You don't strike me as someone who plans for collapse."
The pen felt heavier.
I set it down on the contract. "I'll need to think about it."
"That's your right." He didn't look surprised. "You have seventy-two hours. The offer expires at the end of your probationary period. If you decline, your temp contract renews for another ninety days. No penalty."
He stood. The meeting was over.
I stood too. My legs were steady.
"One more thing," he said as I turned toward the door.
I stopped.
He picked up the personnel assessment form. Glanced at it. "Your operational metrics are clean. But there's a pattern in your mission selections. You've volunteered for every extraction involving Dawn Bell personnel or affiliates. And you've consistently requested post-mission access to their field reports."
He looked up. "That's not against the rules. But it's notable. If you're investigating something, the intelligence network access in the core contract would be more efficient than scraping field reports."
He wasn't asking what I was doing. He was telling me he'd seen the pattern. And offering a tool.
"Why would I be investigating?" I asked.
"I don't know." He set the form down. "But if you are, and if it's guild-relevant, I'd rather you have the right resources. Less chance of collateral mistakes."
He said *mistakes*, not *damage*.
"Thank you for the offer," I said.
He nodded. "Seventy-two hours."
I walked out. The door stayed open behind me.
The hallway was still bright, still humming. I passed two junior clerks carrying data pads. They didn't look at me.
My right hand was so cold it felt numb.
He'd measured my decay. He'd given it a rate. Ten percent per month. From 100% to zero in ten months. I was at sixty-five point nine. Three months in. Right on schedule.
He hadn't asked how. He'd asked why.
And he'd offered me a net. A net with a built-in trigger for my exposure, but a net nonetheless.
I reached the lobby. The glass front of the headquarters showed the city outside, late afternoon light slanting across the buildings. Normal world.
My guild tablet vibrated in my pocket. A message. Not from Lucian.
*Kiran Vale: Have something for you. Usual place. One hour.*
I deleted it.
My fingers hovered over the screen. Then I pulled up my mission log. Scrolled through the past three months. Dawn Bell extractions: four. Post-mission report requests: four. Always approved. Always logged.
He'd seen it. Of course he'd seen it.
I put the tablet away. Started walking toward the guild dormitory. My room was temporary, sparse. I had seventy-two hours to decide whether to make it permanent.
The medication packet Sol Mercer had given me was still in my jacket pocket. I could feel the crinkle of the paper against my chest. I hadn't thrown it out. I hadn't used it.
I didn't know why.
When I reached my room, I locked the door. Sat on the edge of the bed. The silence was complete.
Healing Pool: 67.4%.
Three months ago, Ana had been alive. Three months ago, I'd had a friend who tilted her head and decided whether to lie. Three months ago, my hands were warm.
I opened my notebook. The list.
Four names remaining. Zack Stroud. Moira Sable. Gideon Roarke. And the fourth, the one I hadn't written yet, the hypothesis from the Dawn Bell reports.
I looked at the page. The ink was clean. The names were just names.
Lucian's voice in my head: *Ten percent per month.*
I had seven months left, at this rate. Maybe six, if the next target cost more.
The list had four names.
The math didn't work.
I closed the notebook. Set it on the bedside table. Stood up and walked to the window. The city lights were starting to come on, windows glowing in the dusk.
My reflection in the glass was faint. Just a shape. A woman in a guild jacket, hands at her sides.
One of my hands was colder than the other.
I had seventy-two hours to decide whether to let Lucian Voss get closer. To accept his net. To use his resources to hunt the people he didn't know I was hunting.
He was methodical. He'd seen the decay. He hadn't reported it.
Why?
The question hung.
I turned from the window. My tablet vibrated again. This time it was a guild alert: a C-rank rift opening on the city's eastern edge, requesting healer support. Voluntary sign-up.
I didn't move.
The alert blinked. Time ticked down.
I picked up the tablet. Opened the response screen. My thumb hovered over *Accept*.
Then I hit *Decline*.
First time I'd ever done that.
The screen cleared. No confirmation. No reprimand. Just the next alert, waiting.
I set the tablet down. Picked up the core contract I'd brought with me, folded it in half. Slid it into the notebook's back cover.
Seventy-two hours.
I had a list to finish before my light went out.
Seventy-two hours.
He hadn't named a deadline. He hadn't needed to. The number was written on the timeline he thought I couldn't see: Dawn Bell, the closed inquiry two years old, the healer never recovered. He'd lined all of it up and slid a contract across the desk like a mirror, watching to see which piece of my face moved first.
He knew I was decaying. He knew I was hunting.
He'd just handed me the key to hunt better — and kept the other copy.
I walked out of the tower without looking back. The glass doors closed behind me with the soft hiss of a lock sliding into a slot that fit too well.
Seventy-two hours to choose.
Seventy-two hours for him to watch me choose.
---
── Author's Note ──
100 Power Stones by Sunday = bonus chapter next week. No padding. No filler.
If you want to see the next cure turn into a knife, vote tells me you're here.
Rank climb = editor notices = more Vera.