The Guild returned precisely at noon.
Not a minute early.
Not a minute late.
Ace had cleaned the studio twice.
Not because he feared inspection—but because the act of ordering threads calmed him.
Spools were aligned by color gradient.
Cursed items sealed in labeled containment circles.
The floorboards polished until the morning light reflected in soft gold bands.
Pipkin stood atop the counter wearing his smallest formal waistcoat.
"We are composed," he muttered. "We are professional. We are not a destabilizing anomaly."
The door opened.
This time there were five officials.
And one artisan.
He entered last.
Broad-shouldered, silver hair tied back, fingers stained with dye and alchemical burn marks. His coat bore the Guild insignia—but his needle pin was gold instead of silver.
Master Broven.
Ace felt it immediately.
Judgment.
Broven's eyes swept the studio, lingering on the labeled shelves.
FAILED.
CURSED.
WAITING.
"Charming," Broven said flatly. "Very sentimental."
The tall official from yesterday stepped forward.
"Inspection begins now."
He placed a crystalline device on the central table. It hummed faintly.
"Resonance gauge," he explained. "It measures enchantment stability, spectral layering, and memory persistence."
Pipkin stiffened.
Memory persistence.
Broven folded his arms.
"Let's begin with something simple," he said. "Show us a standard repair."
Ace leapt lightly onto the table.
An adventurer's cracked shield was placed before him—ordinary steel, shallow enchantment. Defensive reinforcement rune.
Ace placed one paw on the fracture.
He breathed in.
He did not dive.
He listened.
A faint echo brushed his senses—rain. Mud. A desperate retreat.
He kept the surface contact shallow.
With careful pressure, he stitched the fracture line, guiding the metal back into structural harmony.
The crack sealed.
The resonance gauge flickered.
Stable.
But then—
A second flicker.
Broven leaned closer.
"Interesting."
The gauge glowed faintly blue around the repaired seam.
"Residual memory trace," one official murmured.
Ace lifted his paw.
He had not pulled the memory fully—but he had not erased it either.
Broven's eyes narrowed.
"Again," he said. "Something more complex."
The officials produced a leather gauntlet.
Burn damage. Corrupted rune lattice.
Ace stepped forward.
The moment his paw touched the surface—
The memory surged harder this time.
Fire. Panic. A miscast spell rebounding.
He almost slipped deeper.
But he stopped himself.
Control.
He separated the threads—physical damage from emotional imprint. Repaired the rune structure first.
Then, carefully, he thinned the lingering panic echo without erasing it entirely.
The leather cooled.
The rune steadied.
The gauge pulsed brighter this time.
Layered reading.
One official frowned. "It's not cleansing the memory," she said quietly. "It's reorganizing it."
Broven stepped forward and placed his own hand on the gauntlet.
He closed his eyes.
Nothing responded to him.
He pulled back.
"You're interfacing with it," he said sharply. "Not suppressing it."
Ace met his gaze.
Broven's jaw tightened.
"That is relic-tier methodology," he said to the officials. "You do not allow apprentices to perform relic-tier interfacing unsupervised."
Pipkin bristled. "He is not an apprentice."
"Then what is he?" Broven snapped.
Silence fell.
The tall official gestured to the final item.
A sealed wooden case was placed on the table.
The air around it felt wrong.
Ace's fur lifted slightly.
Broven's voice was calm now.
"Recovered battlefield artifact. Classified minor curse. We've stabilized it—but not resolved it."
The case opened.
Inside lay a fractured helm.
Dark etchings crawled along the interior rim.
The resonance gauge immediately flared amber.
"Proceed," Broven said.
This was a test.
Ace stepped forward.
The moment his paw touched the metal—
The world tilted.
Screams.
Helplessness.
A final stand beneath collapsing banners.
The curse wasn't malicious.
It was unfinished grief.
It pressed against him, trying to replay.
For a moment—just a moment—Ace felt the pull.
He could dive deeper.
Extract it fully.
But five Guild officials were watching.
He steadied himself.
He did not absorb.
He did not erase.
He threaded.
Carefully, he aligned the fragmented emotional imprint with the helm's reinforcement lattice. Not removing the memory—anchoring it so it would not lash outward.
The dark etchings slowed.
The amber glow dimmed.
The resonance gauge stabilized at steady gold.
Layered stability.
Memory intact. Curse neutralized.
Silence filled the room.
One official exhaled slowly.
Broven stared at the helm.
Then at Ace.
"You're not cleansing," he said quietly.
"You're negotiating."
Ace blinked once.
That was… accurate.
Broven's gaze hardened.
"That is dangerous."
"Why?" Pipkin demanded.
"Because," Broven said, "if you negotiate with relics, eventually one will negotiate back."
The words hung in the air.
The tall official finally spoke.
"Inspection findings: subject demonstrates advanced memory-layer interfacing. No immediate destabilization detected."
He paused.
"However—"
He looked at Ace directly.
"Memory accumulation risk is unquantified."
Ace's tail stilled.
Broven stepped back, folding his arms again.
"You're building pressure," he said quietly to Ace. "Every echo you touch leaves a trace."
He tapped his own temple.
"Metal forgets slowly. Minds forget slower."
The officials began packing their instruments.
"Further evaluation pending," the tall one said. "You will receive notice of council deliberation."
They turned toward the door.
Broven lingered.
For a moment, it seemed he might say something cutting.
Instead, he studied Ace thoughtfully.
"You have talent," he said at last.
A beat.
"But talent without discipline becomes catastrophe."
He left.
The door closed.
The studio felt heavier.
Pipkin sagged against a spool of crimson thread.
"Well," he said weakly, "that could have gone worse."
Ace did not respond.
He was staring at the repaired helm.
He could still feel it.
Not loudly.
Not painfully.
But faintly.
A soldier's final defiance.
A vow unfinished.
Memory always leaves a mark.
Ace flexed his paw.
For the first time, he wondered—
How many marks was he carrying now?
Outside, word of the inspection was already spreading.
Inside a distant iron tower, Director Veyr reviewed a separate report.
He read one line twice.
> Subject reorganizes emotional residue without removal.
Veyr smiled faintly.
"Adaptive," he murmured.
And far more interesting than predicted.