Chapter 19 — Propagation
She woke screaming.
Not loudly—her throat caught halfway through—but violently enough that I had to grab her wrists to keep her from tearing the air open again. The margin around her fluttered, thin and raw, like a wound that hadn't decided whether it was done bleeding.
"Easy," I said. "You're safe. You're anchored."
She stared at me, eyes wild. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," I said. "That's why it worked."
That confused her. Good. Confusion slowed panic.
Valerius crouched nearby, wings tight, eyes sharp. "Name," she said gently.
"Lysa," the girl whispered.
"Lysa," Valerius repeated. "Breathe. In. Out."
Lysa obeyed, shakily. With each breath, the margin thinned, settling into something quieter. Not closed. Never closed. But no longer tearing at itself.
Puck hovered, unusually subdued. "Congratulations," he muttered. "You just invented mentorship under fire."
I ignored him.
"Listen to me," I said to Lysa. "What you touched—that wasn't a god. It wasn't a shrine. It was a gap. Gaps don't grant wishes. They amplify intent."
Her brow furrowed. "Then why did it answer?"
"Because you were desperate," I said. "Reality hates unresolved desperation."
That was true.
It hated it enough to rewrite itself.
Lysa swallowed. "They took my brother last week."
There it was.
Derivative enforcement again. No Curator insignia. No official audit. Just people copying what worked and calling it justice.
Valerius closed her eyes briefly. "How many collectors?"
"Three," Lysa said. "They come at dusk. They carry ledgers."
Of course they did.
The Shard pulsed—low, unsettled.
I stood.
"Where's your village?"
She hesitated, then pointed east. "Half a day."
Puck let out a humorless laugh. "Half a day is an eternity right now."
"I know," I said.
Valerius rose as well. "Arthur. Think."
"I am," I replied. "That's the problem."
I looked down at Lysa.
She was watching me like I was an answer.
I hated that.
"You can't come with us," I said firmly.
Her face crumpled.
"But," I added quickly, "you're not alone anymore."
I reached—not outward, not into the margins—but back.
To the residue.
To the pattern I'd left in the world.
It responded.
Faintly. Dangerously.
Like embers recognizing each other.
I felt them then.
Other places.
Other cracks.
Other people brushing against the edges and pulling away—or falling through.
Propagation.
"This is what they wanted," Valerius said quietly. "You see that, don't you?"
"Yes," I said. "They wanted to see if I'd spread."
"And you did."
I nodded. "But not the way they think."
I knelt again and met Lysa's eyes. "When the collectors come," I said, "you don't fight them. You don't open anything."
She nodded frantically.
"You anchor," I continued. "You breathe. You name what you need—not what you want. And you wait."
"For what?" she asked.
"For proof," I said.
She didn't understand.
That was fine.
She would.
We left her with supplies and directions—real ones, not conceptual. Valerius marked the ground subtly, not with magic but with presence. A promise of return.
As we walked away, the road noticed us again.
Too much.
The Shard began to vibrate, harder than it ever had.
Puck winced. "Okay. That's new."
I staggered as something slammed into my awareness.
Not a voice.
A notification.
Not spoken.
Filed.
> Propagation threshold exceeded.
I sucked in a breath.
Valerius grabbed my arm. "Arthur—"
"I know," I said hoarsely. "They're done observing."
The world tilted—not physically, but hierarchically.
Somewhere above relevance and below authorship, something vast shifted its weight.
The Curator was no longer asking what I was.
It was asking how far I could spread before breaking the system.
And worse—
Whether breaking it might be cheaper.
I straightened, jaw tight.
"Come on," I said. "If I'm a vector now…"
Puck swallowed. "Yeah?"
"Then I get to choose," I finished, "what I infect."
The Shard hummed—sharp, resolute.
And across the land, in places I couldn't yet see, margins stirred—
Not in obedience.
In recognition.