"You will withdraw your Killing Intent."
The words were spoken evenly. Not raised. Not sharpened. A feminine voice with an experienced cadence.
Sawyer stopped.
They had made it no more than ten paces from the Guild's inner threshold—far enough that the murmuring hall behind them had resumed its low, constant rhythm. Quills scratched parchment. Contracts were stamped. A negotiation resumed at a nearby table, voices layered neatly atop one another as though nothing had occurred.
The woman standing before Sawyer ensured it stayed that way.
Vice-Guild Master Erika had not approached from the front. She had simply been there, stepping into Sawyer's path with the unremarkable precision of someone accustomed to doing so. A young adult. Unadorned leathers. No visible sigils. No flaring Song.
Which meant it all lay beneath the surface.
"You released it inside Guild space," Erika continued, folding her hands behind her back. "Briefly. Carelessly. Like a child."
Sawyer met her eyes.
"I didn't draw steel," he said.
"No," Erika agreed. "You did something worse."
The air felt… tight.
Not with pressure. With attention.
Adventurers nearby had not turned to look, yet Sawyer felt the subtle realignment—the way bodies angled away, instincts whispering danger without ever naming it. Agnes stood rigid at his side, jaw tight, breath carefully measured.
"Killing Intent is a declaration," Erika said. "A social weapon. You do not wield it unless you intend for the consequences to echo."
Sawyer tilted his head slightly. "You felt it."
Erika smiled.
"Everyone did. That is precisely the problem."
She stepped closer. Not into Sawyer's space—never that—but close enough that the distance itself became deliberate.
"You did not aim it at a person," Erika said. "Nor did you shape it with the Song. It bled outward. Unfocused. Untuned."
Faust shifted behind Sawyer.
"That kind of emission," she continued, "is how beasts announce themselves before they charge."
Several adventurers nearby stiffened. No one spoke.
Sawyer's fingers curled once at his side. He made no effort to hide it.
"I retracted it," he said. "Immediately."
"Yes," Erika replied. "Which tells me you are trained."
She paused.
"Exceptionally trained. And that you did not understand where you were."
Bran finally spoke. "Vice-Guild Master, if an infraction was committed, we will submit to—"
"There will be no sanction," Erika said calmly.
That earned her their full attention.
"No mark. No fine. No formal report," she continued. "Those are for beasts who are unaware of where they stand."
Her gaze returned to Sawyer.
"This," she said, "was a demonstration."
Sawyer felt it then—not pressure, not accusation.
Assessment.
"You frightened three junior clerks, disrupted two active Song-weaves, and caused a veteran contract holder to nearly draw steel on instinct alone," Erika said. "All without a single hostile act."
A faint crease appeared at the corner of her eyes.
"That is not normal."
The Guild Hall felt very quiet.
"You will not do it again," she said. Not a threat. A boundary. "Not here. Never again, in front of me."
Sawyer held her gaze for a long moment.
Then nodded.
Erika stepped aside.
"Enjoy your stay in the city," the Vice-Guild Master said pleasantly. "And consider this… professional courtesy."
As he passed her, Sawyer felt it—brief, sharp, unmistakable.
Aluna's gaze.
Not probing.
Confirming.
She took him outside without a word, frustration and shame evident in the flush of her face. The rest of the party remained behind in the Guild, to Agnes and Bran's visible displeasure.
Behind them, the Guild continued to hum with life and Song, orderly and secure.
Ahead lay streets that no longer felt neutral.
And for the first time, Sawyer understood what he had truly done—and why Erika had noticed.
They did not speak until the Guild was out of sight.
The street bent away from the main hall into narrower stone, older stone—laid before the Guild had learned how to make itself indispensable. The crowd thinned. Sound changed. Footsteps carried farther than they should have.
Sawyer felt it before Aluna stopped walking.
She drew in a slow breath, the kind taken by someone composing herself.
"The head priest asked to see you," she said.
Sawyer halted.
Not sharply. Not in surprise.
Just… stopped.
"When?" he asked.
Aluna did not look at him. Her eyes remained on the street ahead, where the city sloped upward toward the temple quarter—white spires just visible above the rooftops.
"Before that fiasco at the Guild," she said. "During the rites."
Sawyer turned his head slightly. "You didn't mention it."
"No," Aluna agreed. "I was hoping it would become irrelevant."
It hadn't.
"Asked," Sawyer said. "Not summoned."
"Yes."
"That matters."
"It does," she replied quietly. "Which is why I'm telling you now."
They resumed walking, slower this time.
"The priest did not accuse you," Aluna continued. "He noticed you."
Something cold settled behind Sawyer's ribs.
"That's worse," he said.
Aluna nodded once.
"The Song didn't move around you the way it should have," she said. "It passed. Like wind around stone. Most people wouldn't sense the difference. He did."
Sawyer exhaled through his nose. Controlled. Silent.
"And he still wants to meet me."
"Yes."
"Alone?"
Her hesitation was brief. Telling.
"He did not specify."
They reached an intersection where the streets divided cleanly—one path leading deeper into commerce, the other rising toward the temples. The stone beneath the latter was lighter, cleaner. Maintained by faith rather than trade.
Sawyer stopped at the split.
The city felt balanced on that point.
Behind them: the Guild—already listening, already deciding.
Ahead: the Church—warm-eyed and infinitely patient.
Two institutions. Two different kinds of blades.
"What does he think I am?" Sawyer asked.
Aluna turned to face him.
"I don't know," she said. "But I know what he doesn't think."
She held his gaze.
"He doesn't think you're an accident."
Silence stretched.
Somewhere above them, a bell rang—not an alarm. Not a warning. A call to prayer. Its resonance threaded gently through the air. Sawyer felt the Song respond around him, eager and alive.
It did not touch him.
"He said," Aluna added, softer now, "that he wanted to speak with someone who had walked a long way without being carried."
Sawyer looked toward the temple spires.
Then away.
"Tell him," Sawyer said, "that I'll come."
Aluna searched his face. "Tonight?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Sawyer's mouth twitched—not quite a smile.
"Because if I don't," he said, "the Guild will make sure I do. And I'd rather hear the truth from someone who still believes in mercy."
They turned toward the rising street.
Above them, the city continued to sing.
And Sawyer walked through it, unchanged—already aware that by nightfall, someone would finally say mention silence out loud.