Chapter 15 — Audit Trail
The bells didn't stop.
They rang with mechanical patience—three notes, pause, repeat—like the town itself was counting breaths.
People began to move.
Not panicking. Not running.
Organizing.
Doors closed in careful sequence. Shutters folded inward. Lanterns were lit one by one, not for light but for confirmation. Each flame burned the same height. The same color.
"They've rehearsed this," Puck whispered.
"Of course they have," Valerius said. "This isn't the first correction failure."
The square filled quickly. Townsfolk gathered in neat clusters, eyes unfocused, bodies angled subtly away from us. No one blocked our path. No one helped either.
We were being excluded without confrontation.
At the center of the square, the ground split.
Not cracked—unsealed.
A circular plate of stone slid aside, revealing a stairwell descending into lamplit darkness. From below rose the same neutral hum I'd felt from the obelisk earlier.
Cheaper.
Derivative.
But coordinated.
"That's the maintenance level," Valerius said. "Local authority."
"I don't like local authority," I replied.
A figure emerged from the stairwell.
Then another.
Then several more.
They wore no masks, no robes. Just town clothes—aprons, coats, work boots. Ordinary people.
Except for the red thread stitched into their collars.
Except for the way their shadows stood just a little straighter than they did.
The one in front—a broad-shouldered woman with grey hair pulled tight—looked directly at me.
"Arthur," she said.
No question.
No introduction.
My stomach dropped. "You know me."
She nodded. "We know of you. That's enough."
Puck bristled. "That's never enough."
She ignored him. Her gaze never left mine. "You caused a deviation."
"You were erasing people," I shot back.
"We were preserving continuity," she replied calmly. "This town exists because we correct."
Valerius stepped forward. "At the cost of autonomy."
The woman inclined her head. "Autonomy is inefficient."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "You sound just like them."
"Yes," she said. "That's why we survive."
The Shard stirred—uneasy.
This wasn't Curator authority.
This was worse.
Local imitation with conviction.
"You killed a corrector," the woman continued. "You unsealed a stabilized erratum. You introduced uncertainty into a closed loop."
"I saved a man," I said.
She tilted her head. "He will now destabilize."
"And you'll fix him?" I asked.
"No," she said. "We'll remove him."
Something cold settled in my chest.
"Not happening," I said quietly.
The woman sighed—not frustrated. Regretful. "Then you leave us no option."
She raised her hand.
The people behind her moved in unison.
The square tightened.
Not physically.
Procedurally.
Paths narrowed. Space compressed into preferred outcomes. The world didn't resist me—it suggested where I should be.
The Shard pulsed hard.
Careful.
I ignored it.
"No," I said, louder now.
The suggestion sharpened.
I felt myself being filed toward compliance.
Valerius lunged.
Her rapier struck the invisible constraint and skidded, sparks flying. "They're not enforcing physically," she snarled. "They're enforcing probability."
"Of course they are," I muttered. "Everyone's a critic."
I stepped forward.
The pressure intensified.
The margins screamed—not for use, but for attention.
I didn't bend them.
I didn't close them.
I traced them.
I reached inward, to the residue I'd been so careful to soften—and instead of hiding it, I declared it.
"I am not an error," I said.
The words landed.
Hard.
The square shuddered.
The people flinched as one.
The woman's eyes widened. "You can't—"
"I am not a correction," I continued. "And I am not yours to stabilize."
The Shard roared.
Not outward.
Through me.
The pressure broke—not explosively, but categorically. Like a rule being struck from a list.
Space relaxed.
Paths reopened.
Probability lost its grip.
The people staggered, suddenly uncertain where to stand.
The woman dropped to one knee, gasping. "Audit—" she choked. "Audit breach—"
A new presence arrived.
Not descending.
Not appearing.
Registering.
The air went still.
Cold.
Clean.
Every shadow in the square aligned perfectly.
A voice spoke—not from one place, but from record.
> Deviation exceeds local authority.
The woman bowed her head. "Curator—"
> Local correction protocol suspended.
The red threads in their collars went slack.
The maintenance stairwell sealed itself.
I stood frozen, heart hammering.
This was it.
This was escalation.
> Arthur Hale, the voice continued.
Margin claimant. Volatile. Non-derivable.
The same words Elias had used.
My throat went dry.
> You have interfered with an active stabilization system.
"Yes," I said hoarsely.
A pause.
> Justification?
I swallowed.
"Because people aren't drafts," I said. "And towns aren't books you get to keep rewriting until they behave."
Silence.
Longer this time.
Then—
> Statement logged.
The pressure eased—but did not leave.
> This constitutes a formal audit trail.
Puck whispered, "I really don't like the sound of that."
> Further deviations will result in direct review.
The presence withdrew.
Not gone.
Filed.
The townsfolk collapsed where they stood, unconscious but breathing. The woman lay still, eyes open, staring at the sky.
Valerius exhaled shakily. "You just forced Curator intervention."
"I know," I said.
My knees gave out. I sat hard on the stone.
The Shard hummed—deep, resonant.
Not triumph.
Responsibility.
Somewhere, a ledger updated.
A line was drawn.
And my name was no longer just annotated.
It was tracked.
I looked up at the darkening sky over Kastell Vale.
"Okay," I whispered. "Audit trail it is."
And for the first time since I'd touched the margins—
I knew there was no going back.