The studio felt quieter after the Guild left.
Not empty.
Just… listening.
Ace sat alone on the main worktable, staring at the repaired helm.
The dark etchings no longer crawled. The curse was neutralized. The resonance was stable.
And yet—
He could still feel it.
Not as a scream.
Not as grief.
As presence.
A steady, muted weight.
Pipkin was reorganizing scrolls at twice his normal speed—his tell for anxiety.
"Strategic Asset," he muttered. "Monitoring Status: Active. Further evaluation pending. That's bureaucratic language for 'we don't know whether to fund you or contain you.'"
Ace's ears twitched.
He extended one paw and lightly tapped the helm again.
This time, the memory did not surge.
It unfolded.
A hill beneath a storm-dark sky.
A shield line breaking.
A soldier kneeling—not in fear, but in refusal to retreat.
The emotion was no longer chaotic.
It was anchored.
Stable.
But when Ace pulled his paw away—
The hill remained.
Not in the room.
In him.
He blinked.
The image faded.
But the feeling lingered.
Pipkin stopped shuffling papers.
"…You're doing it again, aren't you?"
Ace did not look up.
He flexed his claws slowly against the wood.
The faintest tremor ran through the threadlines hanging from the rafters.
Not visible to normal eyes.
But he felt them shift.
Pipkin climbed onto the table, pushing aside a stack of parchment.
"Broven wasn't entirely wrong," he said carefully. "If you keep storing these impressions without release—"
He didn't finish.
A sudden knock interrupted them.
Not measured like the Guild.
Not frantic like a customer.
Tentative.
Ace turned toward the door.
Pipkin straightened his waistcoat again and hopped down to answer.
A young woman stood outside, armor scratched but clean. Her hair was tied back hastily, and she clutched something wrapped in cloth.
She hesitated before stepping in.
"I heard…" she began quietly. "You repaired Captain Hollen's helm."
Ace's ears perked.
The helm on the table.
The young woman stepped closer. Her eyes softened when she saw it.
"He was my squad leader."
She swallowed.
"They said the curse was resolved."
Pipkin adjusted his glasses. "Yes. The destabilizing aspects have been neutralized."
The woman approached slowly, almost reverently.
"May I?"
Ace watched her carefully.
She reached out and placed her hand on the helm.
Nothing flared.
Nothing screamed.
Her shoulders trembled.
Then she smiled.
"He feels… steady," she whispered.
Ace stilled.
She closed her eyes.
"I can still feel him. But it doesn't hurt anymore."
The words settled heavily in the air.
Pipkin looked at Ace.
Ace understood now.
He had not removed the captain's final stand.
He had shaped it.
The woman carefully rewrapped the helm.
"Thank you," she said softly. "The Guild mages couldn't quiet it without stripping the enchantment entirely."
She bowed—not deeply, but sincerely—and left.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Pipkin climbed back onto the table slowly.
"That," he said, voice quiet, "is why they're worried."
Ace tilted his head.
"Because you didn't erase him," Pipkin continued. "You preserved him."
Ace looked down at his paw.
He could still feel the hill.
But it was fainter now.
Less sharp.
He blinked again.
The hill flickered—and faded.
Gone.
Not erased.
Released.
Ace froze.
He looked up sharply.
The threadlines above trembled once—then stilled.
Pipkin noticed the shift.
"…What just happened?"
Ace flexed his paw again.
The weight inside his chest felt… lighter.
The anchored memory had dissolved naturally.
Because it had been returned.
Given back.
He hadn't needed to store it permanently.
He had only needed to stabilize it until it could be claimed.
Pipkin's eyes widened.
"You're not accumulating everything," he breathed. "You're holding it temporarily."
Ace's tail flicked once.
Understanding settled between them.
Broven had assumed Ace was collecting residue.
But that wasn't what he was doing.
He was acting as a bridge.
A stabilizer.
A temporary vessel.
Memory always leaves a mark.
But marks don't have to become scars.
A faint hum ran through the studio.
The threads along the walls seemed… brighter.
As if relieved.
Outside, clouds parted slightly.
Across the city, in a tower of iron and stone, Director Veyr stood at a high window overlooking the streets below.
A subordinate approached quietly.
"Report from the inspection, sir."
Veyr read the summary once more.
Memory accumulation risk: unquantified.
He tapped the parchment thoughtfully.
"Send observers," he said at last. "Discreetly."
"And if destabilization begins?"
Veyr's gaze shifted toward the distant market district.
"We intervene."
Back in the studio, Ace hopped down from the table and padded toward the window.
He looked out at the city.
He could feel it now.
Not just items.
Not just artifacts.
Echoes everywhere.
Lingering in stone.
Threaded into cloth.
Whispering in steel.
He pressed his paw gently against the glass.
The world did not overwhelm him.
It waited.
For the first time, Ace understood the shape of his gift.
He was not a collector.
He was a conduit.
And somewhere deep within the city—
Something ancient stirred.
Not violently.
Not yet.
But aware.
It had felt the threading.
And it was listening.