# Chapter Ten: The Bracelet

I stopped at Carter’s on the way to Thresholds. Godsday morning, the shop technically closed, but the door was unlocked and the sounds from the back room said he was working — metal on stone, the faint whisper of inscription work.

"Come on back," he called when the bell chimed.

The back room of Carterson’s Supplies was not a storeroom. It was a forge-and-inscription workshop — compact, meticulously organized, and serious. A small forge occupied the far corner, cold now but recently used. Workbenches lined two walls, covered in tools I recognized and several I didn’t. A magnification apparatus sat clamped to one bench, its lens assembly positioned over a set of throwing knives. Four of them, laid out in a row on a treated leather mat, each roughly eight inches long with a slim profile designed for wrist or chest sheaths. The blades themselves were good steel, well-balanced, but that wasn’t what caught my attention.

Focusing channels. Three of them inscribed along each blade’s spine, fine as hair, running from the grip to a convergence point near the tip where they fed into a tiny amplification node. The channels would carry a magical working during the throw — the user would pump energy into the grip, the channels would carry it forward, and the node would amplify on impact. Concealable magical weapons for someone who needed range and discretion.

"Side project," Carter said, and his tone told me it was anything but. "Client wants channeled throwing weapons. The focusing work is straightforward, but the amplification ratio —" He shook his head. "More output than input without the blade degrading. I’ve been working the inscription geometry for three days."

I wasn’t trying to look. That’s the thing about Flaw Sight — it doesn’t ask permission, and the bracelet had sharpened it like a lens clicking into focus. The channels on the third knife lit up in my perception before I’d finished processing Carter’s sentence: energy flow paths, convergence angles, stress propagation patterns. The whole architecture of the inscription laid itself out in my awareness with a clarity that was —

New. Finer than I was used to. The bracelet’s focusing matrix was doing exactly what I’d hypothesized in the Barrows: same perception, higher resolution. I could see the energy flow at a granularity that Carter’s tools couldn’t match.

And I could see the problem.

"Your third channel," I said. "The convergence is too tight at the amplification node."

Carter went still. Listening.

"The three channels meet at roughly" — I tilted my head, letting the enhanced perception map the geometry — "six degrees of convergence. Under repeated magical stress, that concentration point will develop micro-fractures along the spine. Forty, maybe fifty throws before the blade cracks."

"How can you —" Carter started, then stopped himself. Craftsman’s discipline. The *how* mattered less than the *what*. "Go on."

"Widen the convergence angle. A few degrees. And stagger the channel depths so they don’t all arrive at the node on the same plane. First channel at surface depth, second slightly deeper, third deeper still. The thermal load distributes across more of the blade’s cross-section instead of concentrating at a single point."

I was talking the way I talked when the noise locked onto a technical problem — fast, precise, and completely unaware of social context. Carter didn’t seem to mind. He’d pulled a stool over and was leaning on the workbench, eyes on the knife, processing.

"The staggered depth also improves your channeling efficiency," I added. "Energy arrives at the node in sequence instead of simultaneously — tiny intervals, fractions of a fraction — but the amplification function processes sequential input about twelve percent more efficiently than simultaneous. You get more output for the same input, and the blade lasts indefinitely."

(*Twelve percent. That’s significant. Carter’s been losing twelve percent on every knife he’s made and didn’t know it. Nobody would know it. The tools to measure that don’t —*)

"I’ve been staring at that inscription for three days," Carter said quietly. He wasn’t looking at me now. He was looking at the knife, and the expression on his face was the one I recognized from Mere at Aldric’s — someone encountering precision they hadn’t known was possible. Except Carter’s version was warmer. Maker’s hunger. He wanted to understand, not just observe.

"How did you see that?" he asked. Genuinely wanting to know.

"Geometry," I said, which was true the way saying a river is "water" is true. "I’ve got an eye for structural flaws in magical workings. Comes up sometimes."

Carter studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded, accepting what he’d been given while remembering what he hadn’t.

"You’ve got store credit," he said. "Effective now, no expiration. Next time you need to outfit for a job, your money’s no good here until we’re square."

"You don’t have to —"

"I’ve been staring at it for three days, Varrant. Three days. And you walked in here and saw it in ten seconds." He picked up the third knife and turned it in his hands, already redesigning. "We’re not square yet. Not even close."

I didn’t argue. Partly because he was right about the value of what I’d given him. And partly because store credit at Carterson’s Supplies was worth more than the number attached to it — it meant the next job cost less out of pocket, and the job after that, and the one after that.

Carter noticed the bracelet as I stood to leave. His eyes dropped to my wrist, paused, came back up.

"New piece?"

"Recent acquisition."

The pause sat between us for exactly one second. Then Carter went back to the knife.

I left the shop carrying something that didn’t fit neatly into a category — a professional relationship that had shifted into something with more weight. Carter’s eye for gear and his maker’s precision were going to matter. I could feel it in the same way I could feel a flaw in a ward’s architecture: not proven, but structurally inevitable.

* * *

Godsday morning, and I was walking to Thresholds carrying something I hadn’t named yet.

Not the bracelet — that had a name, or at least a function. Two functions. The bracelet sat under my sleeve, warm against the inside of my wrist where the pulse ran close to the surface, and its steady draw had shifted from uncomfortable to merely present. Like a second heartbeat running slightly out of sync with the first. My reserves had climbed overnight — sixty percent, maybe sixty-five — and the bracelet’s sip from that pool was proportional. Noticeable at twelve percent. Manageable at sixty.

The thing I hadn’t named was the reason I was walking to Thresholds on a Godsday morning instead of lying in the shack staring at the ceiling, which was what my body wanted and what my brain had overruled for reasons it declined to share with me.

Drenwick on a Godsday moved differently. The dockside crews were off or running half-shifts, the market stalls thinned to the persistent sellers who didn’t observe rest days on principle. Godsday traffic drifted toward the temples — Mrs. Dallery would be buying herbs at Gavren’s after service, same as every week, and Gavren would have the chamomile already weighed because he’d learned that efficiency was the only form of worship she respected. The arcane district was quieter still. Most of the shops were shuttered, the Compact’s local offices dark. Thresholds’ door was propped open with a brick, which meant Mere was in.

Sniff found me first. The dog appeared around a shelf stack in the front room, tail moving in the slow, deliberate wag of an animal that had decided you were acceptable but wasn’t going to be dramatic about it. I crouched and let him push his head against my hand — the same head that had crossed a room to find Mere’s palm three weeks ago, when the fear curse dissolved and the world rearranged itself into something he could navigate. He smelled like old paper and binding glue. Thresholds had claimed him, or he’d claimed it.

“You look like you’ve been somewhere you shouldn’t have.”

Mere stood in the doorway to the back room, a stack of texts balanced against one hip. Her hair was pulled back in its usual ponytail, escaping at the temples where it always escaped. She was wearing a loose work shirt that had survived several years of not caring about clothes and a pair of trousers with ink stains on the left knee. She looked exactly like herself, which was the only way she ever looked, and which was the reason my cold-read apparatus had nothing to do when she was in the room.

“The job ran long,” I said.

“I can see that.” She set the texts on the counter and studied me with the frank directness that other people found unnerving and I found — accurate. Her eyes dropped to my left wrist, where the bracelet sat under my sleeve. I hadn’t pushed the sleeve back. The cuff covered it completely. She’d noticed it anyway — the weight, maybe, or the way the fabric draped differently over a band of mineral that hadn’t been there Friday. “You found something. You’re running on fumes. Those two things are probably related.”

Three statements. All correct. No question attached to any of them. She’d given me the space to decide what came next, and she’d done it without performing the act of giving space — she simply wasn’t going to ask until I was ready to tell. This was not patience. Mere didn’t do patience. It was efficiency: asking questions before someone was ready to answer them wasted both people’s time.

I pushed my sleeve back and showed her the bracelet.

She didn’t reach for it. Her eyes moved across the stone — dark red now, distinctly, the color deepening as the reservoir charged — and across the setting, the dark mineral band, the way it sat against my wrist. Cataloguing. The same systematic observation she’d applied to chisel slips and crystal density and binding salt quality.

“Pre-Compact,” she said. Not a guess. She’d seen enough old texts to recognize the period from the inscription style alone.

“At least a century. Possibly two. I found it behind a death ward on the second floor of the Barrows.”

“The second floor wasn’t in the job brief.”

“No.”

Mere processed this — the deviation from orders, the risk, the discovery — in about two seconds. She didn’t lecture. She didn’t express relief that I’d survived. She filed the data and moved to what mattered.

“Does your guild know about it?”

“No. The brief was for the first floor. Verdenshade retrieval. I delivered the verdenshade. Everything else is —” I turned the bracelet on my wrist. “Call it a perk of the job.”

Mere studied me for a moment. Not judging — cataloguing. Filing the fact that I’d kept something from the people who paid me and brought it to the person who didn’t.

“What does it do?”

I told her. The focusing matrix — how it refined Flaw Sight the way a lens refined light, finer detail at lower energy cost, the difference between squinting and wearing glasses. The reservoir — the second function, a passive trickle-charge system that drew from natural recovery and stored the excess. Pre-Compact engineering that represented fundamental improvements to a framework modern practitioners took for granted.

Mere listened the way she always listened — completely, without interruption, processing in real time. When I finished, she asked the question I hadn’t considered.

“What happens when it’s full?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

(*The reservoir. It’s charging. It has a capacity. Capacity implies a limit. What happens at the limit? Does it stop drawing? Does it overflow? Does the stored energy change the focusing function? You mapped the architecture. You identified the components. You didn’t model the steady-state behavior because you were at fifteen percent in a sealed chamber behind a death ward you’d just convinced to eat itself and your analytical priorities were — slightly different.*)

“I don’t know,” I said.

Mere nodded. Not satisfaction at catching me out — she didn’t think in those terms. Genuine interest. “You should probably find out before it gets there.”

She was right. The noise had been so occupied with what the bracelet did that it had skipped what the bracelet did *next*. Rare. Mere’s pattern recognition operated on a different axis than mine — she saw system states where I saw system flaws. The oversight was the kind of thing I’d have caught in someone else’s working and missed in my own.

She’d pulled a text from the shelf behind the counter — old, leather-bound, the spine cracked in a way that meant it had been opened to the same pages repeatedly. Pre-Compact theory, from the notation on the cover. She laid it open beside my wrist and ran her finger along a line of symbols.

“This notation,” she said, pointing to the bracelet’s inscription. “The grammar structure. It’s closer to this” — she tapped the text — “than anything in the modern standard. The verb forms are different. Older. More compound.”

“You can read pre-Compact notation?”

“I can read *grammar*. The symbols are different but the sentence structure follows rules, and rules have patterns.” She traced a sequence on the bracelet without touching it. “This section here — it’s not a simple function description. It’s conditional. *If-then* logic built into the inscription itself. Modern runes don’t do that. They’re declarative — *this rune does this thing*. This is responsive.”

I stared at the inscription I’d been looking at since Saturday and saw, for the first time, what she meant. The notation I’d dismissed as archaic flourish was structural. The bracelet wasn’t just enchanted — it was *programmed*, in a language that predated the Compact’s standardization by generations.

Mere was quiet for a moment. Not the thinking kind of quiet — the assessing kind. She was looking at me, not the bracelet. Her finger still rested beside the conditional notation she’d just decoded, but her attention had moved somewhere else entirely.

“You hid this from your guild,” she said. “You haven’t shown Leon. But you walked here on a Godsday morning and put it on the counter.” She said it the way she said everything — as observed fact, not accusation or flattery. Data in, conclusion out. “You’re my partner.”

The noise stopped.

Not faded. Not quieted. Stopped — the same absolute silence that had filled my head when she’d kissed my cheek two days ago, the same sudden absence of the constant background processing that had been running since I was fourteen. Except this time there was no physical contact to attribute it to, no gesture to file under *unexpected stimulus*. Just four syllables delivered in the same tone she’d used to discuss grammar structures, with the same certainty she’d applied to crystal density and chisel slips and the structural inadequacy of Brevian’s warding anchors.

Then the noise restarted. Fast. My cold-read apparatus spun up and reached for subtext and found — nothing. No hidden meaning. No manipulation angle. No emotional performance to decode. She meant exactly what she’d said, with exactly the weight she’d given it, which was the same weight as everything else she said because Mere Fields did not assign different weights to different truths. A truth was a truth. Some of them were about reservoir mechanics and some of them were about what two people were to each other and she treated both with the same direct, unflinching precision.

(*She’s been collecting data. Every visit. Every conversation. Every time you came here first, shared something technical, asked her opinion. She identified the pattern. She named it. This is what she does — she sees the pattern and states the pattern and the idea that this requires a special moment or an emotional buildup doesn’t occur to her because she’s assessed that approach and found it — *)

“Yes,” I said. “That’s — yes. Accurate.”

The humor, if you could call it that, was in the gap. She’d just rearranged the architecture of two lives with three words and a tone of voice usually reserved for identifying grammatical structures, and my response was to confirm it like a contract term I hadn’t realized I’d already agreed to.

Mere went back to the pre-Compact text. Not because the moment was over — because the moment didn’t require anything else. She’d stated a fact. I’d confirmed it. The fact was now operational. She turned a page.

“The conditional logic in this inscription,” she said. “If the reservoir function is responsive rather than static, the full-charge behavior might depend on the wearer’s state when it reaches capacity. You’ll want to monitor the transition.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

Sniff had settled against my boot at some point during the conversation. I hadn’t noticed. He was warm and breathing steadily and his weight against my ankle was the particular comfort of a creature that had decided where it belonged and wasn’t interested in reconsidering.

I stayed for another hour. We talked about the bracelet’s notation and pre-Compact engineering and the texts at Thresholds that might shed light on the older runic grammar. Mere made tea. I drank it. The noise ran at a frequency I didn’t have a word for — not quiet, not loud, just — aligned. Operating on the same wavelength as the room it was in.

When I left, the bracelet was warm under my sleeve and the word *partner* sat in my chest like something load-bearing.

* * *

Monday and Tuesday, I did the work I should have done in the Barrows if I’d had more than fifteen percent reserves and less than a death ward to think about.

The shack was not a laboratory. It was a single room with a cot, a table, one chair, and house plans pinned to the wall. But it had a door that locked and no ambient magical noise from neighboring shops or arcane district foot traffic, and for Flaw Sight work, quiet mattered more than comfort. I sat at the table with the bracelet on my wrist and my reserves climbing — seventy-five percent Monday morning, eighty by Tuesday afternoon — and I looked.

Really looked. The way I’d looked at the dog’s fear curse in Mere’s back room. The way I’d looked at the death ward’s architecture through eight full observation cycles. Except now I had the bracelet’s focusing matrix refining every perception, and the difference was —

(*Like the difference between squinting and wearing glasses. No. Better than that. Like the difference between reading a sign across the street and reading the brushstrokes that made the letters. Same information, finer grain. The noise is quieter. Not less — refined. Signal separated from interference. Is this what other people’s heads feel like?*)

The focusing matrix wasn’t a magnifier. It was a filter. Flaw Sight had always shown me everything — every crack, every inefficiency, every structural weakness in every magical working within range. The bracelet didn’t show me more. It showed me *better*. Relevant detail sharpened. Background noise dampened. The constant, exhausting awareness of every minor flaw in every passing ward and enchantment — the thing that made the arcane district feel like standing in a room full of people all talking at once — would become, with this, almost manageable.

The reservoir function was subtler. Even partially charged — the stone had shifted from dark red to something warmer, approaching a deep amber that I tracked each morning like a weather report — it acted as a buffer. Flaw Sight usage spiked and dipped in ways I’d never had the clarity to measure before. A deep analysis that would normally drain reserves in a sharp, sudden drop instead drew from the buffer first, smoothing the spike into a gradual decline. The buffer recharged passively from natural recovery. The net effect: longer sustained analysis at lower personal cost. At full reserves with a charged buffer, I could do work that would have put me on the floor a week ago.

The engineering behind both functions was — unsettling.

These weren’t tricks. Not clever shortcuts or brute-force amplification. The focusing matrix improved the fundamental signal processing of magical perception. The reservoir smoothed the energy dynamics of sustained magical work. These were improvements to the *framework itself* — the underlying architecture that the Arcane Compact had standardized centuries ago and that every licensed practitioner now learned as gospel. Whoever built this bracelet hadn’t worked within the system. They’d worked on the system, improving it the way an engineer improves a bridge design.

And they’d done it before standardization. Before the Compact decided how magic was supposed to work and taught everyone accordingly.

(*The Compact didn’t invent Runic Flow. They inherited it. Standardized it. Locked it down. What was lost in the standardization? What did the older practitioners know that didn’t survive the curriculum? This bracelet is an answer to a question nobody’s asking because nobody knows the question exists.*)

The pre-Compact notation that Mere had identified as conditional logic ran deeper than I’d initially mapped. The bracelet wasn’t just two functions sharing a housing — it was two functions *in conversation*, each informing the other. The focusing matrix adjusted based on the reservoir’s charge state. The reservoir’s draw rate adjusted based on the focusing matrix’s activity. A feedback system. Responsive. Self-optimizing.

Modern enchantments didn’t do that. Modern enchantments did one thing, reliably, within defined parameters. This was something else.

I spent two days mapping the architecture, and by Tuesday evening I had a working model that was probably eighty percent accurate and twenty percent educated guessing. The remaining twenty percent lived in the conditional notation that neither I nor Mere could fully parse yet. The bracelet’s stone had shifted to a warm amber-red. Not full — I could feel the draw continuing, faint and steady — but building.

My reserves sat at eighty-five percent and climbing. Higher than they’d been since before the Barrows. The bracelet’s buffer had accumulated enough charge to smooth one, maybe two deep Flaw Sight analyses without touching my personal reserves. I felt — capable. In a way I hadn’t felt before the Barrows, because before the Barrows I hadn’t known what I was missing.

I thought about the forge-and-redirect technique. The thing I’d invented under pressure in the death ward’s doorway — mapping an internal signature, forging a match, injecting through a seam, redirecting the working to consume itself. It had worked because it needed to work, because the alternative was walking away from a door I couldn’t stop thinking about. But it had been rough. Imprecise. I’d built the forged signature from eight observation cycles and brute concentration, holding the phase offsets in my head through sheer stubbornness while my reserves dropped from eighty to fifteen.

With the bracelet’s focusing matrix, I could see finer detail in the signature. With the buffer, I could sustain the analysis longer without the sharp reserve drain. The technique I’d invented at fifteen percent in a sealed corridor could be refined into something — repeatable. Precise. A tool instead of a desperate improvisation.

The implications sat in my chest and grew.

* * *

Leon’s rooms above the chandler’s shop smelled like tallow and something sharp that was probably a ward-testing compound he’d spilled and not cleaned up. Tuesday evening. I’d brought wine — a decent bottle from the market, not the cheap stuff we’d shared during the notice period. Leon noticed the upgrade.

“Either the job paid well or you’re about to ask me something,” he said, pulling the cork with his teeth because Leon owned a corkscrew and never remembered where he put it.

“The job paid thirty-two silvers after commission. The wine is a thank you.”

“For?”

“Training. The eight-to-ten-second combat window kept me alive in the Barrows. I owed you for that.”

Leon poured two measures into mismatched cups and handed me one. His rooms were comfortable in the way that Leon was comfortable — formerly expensive, casually maintained, and containing more books than furniture. He’d cleared a space on the low table by pushing aside a stack of field journals, and the resulting surface was just large enough for the wine and our elbows.

“So the Barrows,” he said. “You got the plants. You killed some crawlers. You came back looking like someone had dragged you behind a horse.” He took a drink. “What happened to the death ward?”

I told him.

Not the short version. Not the carefully edited nothing I’d given the guild. The full thing — the overnight noise processing, the imperfect conversion ratio, the 2% leakage broadcasting the ward’s internal signature. Eight observation cycles mapping the frequency, the amplitude, the phase offsets at seven routing junctions. The forgery. The injection through the seam. The redirect at junction five. The ward eating itself.

Leon listened with the particular stillness he got when his brain was running faster than his mouth. His cup sat untouched after the first sip. I could see the moment each piece clicked — the recognition, the assessment, the implications spinning outward.

“You forged the ward’s own signature,” he said when I finished. “Matched the internal circulation, fed it back, and turned the conversion function against itself.”

“Yes.”

“From observation alone. Eight cycles. At fifteen percent reserves.”

“Started at eighty. Ended at fifteen.”

Leon picked up his cup, drank, and set it down with the deliberate care of someone buying time to choose words. “I threw four hundred inputs at that thing and it ate them for breakfast. Converted the whole batch to heat without breaking a sweat. I walked away thinking it was perfect.” He looked at me. “You walked up to it and found the one thing it couldn’t do.”

“It couldn’t tell itself apart from a good imitation.”

“Nobody can.” Leon smiled — the real one, not the transactional version. “I might borrow that.”

“The technique?”

“The principle. My approach is always volume — overwhelm the system, flood the channels, let the processing bottleneck do the work. Your approach is infiltration. Precise, surgical, patient.” He refilled both cups. “But what if you applied volume to the forged signal? Not four hundred random inputs — four hundred inputs all matching the internal signature, all injected through different seams simultaneously?”

(*Four hundred forged signals. The precision cost would be — astronomical. You’d need to map each seam independently, match the local phase offset at each injection point, maintain four hundred parallel forgeries without drift. Impossible. Unless you didn’t need precision at each individual point. Unless the volume itself created a statistical average that approximated the signature closely enough for the ward to accept it. Brute-force forgery. That’s — that’s not something I would have considered.*)

“The ward would still need to accept the inputs as internal traffic,” I said. “But if the volume created enough statistical noise to mask the individual imprecisions —”

“Then you don’t need eight observation cycles. You need one good sample and a lot of confidence.”

We went back and forth for twenty minutes, building and dismantling and rebuilding. Leon’s brute-force lens applied to my precision technique. My analytical framework applied to his volume approach. Neither of us would have reached the hybrid alone — his version was too imprecise to fool a well-built ward, mine was too slow to scale. Somewhere in the middle was something neither of us had a name for yet.

I didn’t mention the bracelet. The technique was one thing — methods between practitioners who trusted each other. The artifact was another. Trust had layers, and the layer that included *I found a pre-Compact enhancer that fundamentally improves my magical perception* was deeper than *here’s how I broke a death ward*. Not distrust. Compartmentalization. Leon understood compartmentalization. He practiced it himself.

“The wine was enough,” Leon said as I was leaving. “For the training. We’re even.”

“We’re even.”

“Next time you find something impossible in a ruin, tell me about it sooner. I’ve been thinking about that ward for weeks.”

“Noted.”

The walk home was cold — autumn settling toward something with teeth — and the noise cycled the conversation on a loop, pulling apart the hybrid concept, testing edges, discarding the parts that didn’t hold and keeping the ones that did. Leon had given me something. Not a solution — a direction. The forge-and-redirect technique wasn’t just a one-time improvisation. It was a category. And categories could be refined.

* * *

Wednesday morning, and the shack was what it was.

I’d been staring at the house plans on the wall for ten minutes, which was nine minutes longer than usual. Normally the plans were a thing I passed on the way to the table — a visual reminder of a goal that lived in the arithmetic of savings rates and monthly expenses. Today they were something else. Today the word *partner* was in my head, and it changed the angle of observation.

The shack: one room, twelve feet by fourteen. A cot against the east wall. A table and chair under the window. A lockbox under the floorboard containing thirty-two silvers and whatever was left of the retainer after rent and food. The house plans — nine revisions, five rooms, a workshop with warding anchors — pinned above the cot where I could see them from the pillow. The single window faced the mill’s backside, and the morning light came filtered through years of grime I kept meaning to clean and never did.

Home. For a man alone, this was enough. Barely, sometimes grudgingly, but enough. Rent was two silvers. Food was manageable. The lockbox was fuller than it had ever been. The math was moving — thirty-two net silvers from the Barrows, plus the monthly retainer at fifteen, minus rent, food, incidentals. First real savings accumulation. The house had dropped from forty years to thirteen to — still thirteen, but with actual momentum behind the number instead of a theoretical projection.

(*Mere at the shack. Standing in this room. One room. A cot. Plans on the wall. The mill’s backside through a window she’d assess for light quality and find inadequate. One chair. She’d need to sit on the cot. There is one cot. There is one — the shack doesn’t accommodate a second person. Physically or conceptually. It was designed, if you could call it designed, for someone who had given up on being visited.*)

I ran the scenario the way I ran magical architectures — structural assessment, not emotional inventory. The shack wasn’t embarrassing. Embarrassment implied caring about perception, and Mere didn’t perceive things through a lens of judgment. She’d look at this room and see dimensions, light angles, ventilation, storage capacity. She’d note the house plans with interest and the single cot with the same clinical precision she’d applied to Brevian’s warding anchors. She would not think less of me.

That wasn’t the point.

The point was that *partner* changed the requirements. The way a new variable changed an equation — not wrong before, but incomplete. The shack was built for the arithmetic of one person’s survival. It didn’t have room for what the word implied. Not emotionally — I wasn’t built for that kind of reasoning, and Mere wouldn’t expect it. Structurally. A partner was someone who might come here. Might stay. Might need a second chair, a surface to work on, a reason to keep the window clean. The same brain that found flaws in magical workings had found the flaw in my own arrangements, and it was this: the shack was adequate for what I’d been. It was not adequate for what I’d just become.

I didn’t do anything about it. The realization sat where it was — noted, filed, unresolved. There wasn’t a fix that thirty-two silvers and a monthly retainer could afford. The house was thirteen years away. Renting something better meant less savings, which meant the house was further away, which meant — the math went in circles, the same circles it always went in, except now the circles had a new variable and the variable had golden hair and opinions about grammar.

Ledger’s suggestion about the alias turned over in my head while I made tea. Guild convention — everyone used one. Carter was probably Carter to everyone. Ledger was definitely Ledger to everyone. I needed a name that wasn’t mine, that could carry a reputation without pointing back to a shack on the dockside with one cot and house plans on the wall.

Nothing fit. I let it go. Some things arrived when they were ready.

The afternoon settled into the rhythm of a city that didn’t know I existed — dock sounds through the thin walls, gulls arguing over something in the canal, the distant clang of the mill that I’d learned to sleep through and couldn’t unhear when I was awake. I ate. I checked the bracelet’s stone — amber-red, warming. I reviewed the model of the bracelet’s architecture and found three things I wanted to verify with Mere’s pre-Compact texts. I considered walking to Thresholds and decided against it, because two visits in four days was a frequency I hadn’t established yet and the noise couldn’t decide if establishing it was efficient or — something else.

Then the knock came.

Not a knock, precisely. A folded paper slid under the door — guild courier, standard delivery protocol. No signature, no seal on the outside. I unfolded it at the table.

Job brief. NS-7721. Tier One, extended engagement. A client family had contacted the Guild through proper channels regarding a family member suffering from a curse. The curse had been classified as unbreakable by the Arcane Compact. Two registered curse-breakers had attempted intervention and failed. The client was seeking Guild assistance as a matter of urgency — the cursed individual’s condition was deteriorating.

(*Unbreakable. The Compact classified it as unbreakable. Two professionals failed. The family is desperate enough to hire Necessary Services, which means they’ve exhausted every legitimate option and someone pointed them toward the guild’s polite receptionist and eight-week waiting list that isn’t a waiting list. The fee — *)

The fee was listed at the bottom. I read it twice.

One hundred and fifty silvers. Minus commission, one hundred and twenty net. Plus expenses. The house math — the math I’d been running since the first morning I pinned those plans to the wall — lurched. Not solved. But lurched. From theoretical to possible. From *thirteen years* to *maybe, if more jobs like this exist, something measurably less than thirteen years*.

The brief continued. Patient name: Ned Floundry. Condition: progressive degradation, estimated four to six weeks remaining. Initial consultation to be scheduled at the Guild’s earliest convenience.

My brain was running before I finished reading. The noise — the noise that had been settling into something almost manageable over four days of recovery and bracelet analysis and the steady quiet of knowing where you stood with someone — spun up to full speed. Unbreakable. Three layers, probably, or something novel, or both. The Compact’s assessment meant their standard approaches had failed, which meant the flaw wasn’t in the obvious architecture. Which meant it was in the architecture nobody was looking at. Which meant —

I set the brief on the table and stared at the house plans on the wall. Five rooms. A workshop. Warding anchors. Thirteen years.

Maybe less.

The noise was getting manageable. Now it’s not.
