The first bounty was whispered into existence, like a coin dropped in silence.
It appeared not in official channels or deathscrolls, but etched into the wall of a shadowline train:
> "One life. Untraceable reward. Bring the man who trades memory."
Sykaion's name wasn't written.
But everyone knew who it meant.
Zeraphine found it first.
She stared at the etching while the train passed through flickering tunnels, each burst of light strobing across her face like the warning flashes of conscience. Her fingers hovered above the surface.
Heat still radiated from the message.
Fresh.
She reported nothing.
Instead, she walked.
Arlyss met her outside the tunnel.
"You saw it too," Arlyss said.
Zeraphine nodded.
"They're coming. And they won't ask who he is. Just what he's worth."
Sykaion hadn't left the shop in four days. Not because he couldn't. But because people kept coming. Not just to trade. But to sit. To believe in something that didn't yet have rules.
He didn't notice the man outside the window until dusk. A still figure. Too still.
Sykaion walked outside.
The man wore clean clothes. Hands gloved. No weapon visible.
"Need something?" Sykaion asked.
The man said nothing. Just nodded.
Then offered a coin.
Sykaion reached out—but paused.
The coin bore no mark.
No edge.
No weight.
It wasn't currency.
It was an invitation.
"Who paid you?" Sykaion asked.
The man smiled.
Then stepped back into the crowd and disappeared.
Zeraphine and Arlyss arrived minutes later.
He showed them the coin.
Zeraphine scanned it. The System refused to read.
"No identity thread," she said. "It's unanchored. Someone bought your blood with belief alone."
Arlyss stepped forward, jaw tight.
"I'll seal the building. Rotate clients in through screening."
"No," Sykaion said.
"You're being hunted."
"I always was. But if I turn this into a fortress, the Articles become fear—not faith."
Arlyss grabbed his arm.
He didn't flinch.
But she didn't let go.
"Stop acting like dying is part of your plan," she said. Her voice cracked. "We're here. I'm here. Let us matter."
He looked at her.
Really looked.
And said nothing.
Because he wasn't sure what he believed about being saved.
Zeraphine turned away. But not before he saw the flicker in her eyes. The one that said she'd sacrifice more than her mission for him.
The feather above the door dimmed that night.
Not from disuse.
But from anticipation.
Someone had decided that belief was dangerous.
And in Veltrin, dangerous things don't last long.