Rustline didn't break all at once.
It frayed.
Cole felt it before he saw it. A hitch in the air. A misstep in how sound carried. Voices arriving a half-second late, like the city was thinking about what it wanted to be before answering.
He rode in slow.
The outskirts were wrong first. Dice games stalled mid-throw. Cards clung together like damp paper. A man dropped a coin and watched it roll uphill before stopping, confused, embarrassed, angry at the ground like it had cheated him.
The mule snorted. Didn't like the street stones. Animals always noticed before men did.
Dusty stayed tight to Cole's leg.
They passed a pair of men arguing over a trade. Water for ammo. Fair on paper. Bad in practice. One man swore the count was off. The other swore it wasn't. Neither could explain why their hands were shaking.
Cole didn't stop.
This wasn't personal.
Yet.
Farther in, the distortion sharpened.
A street table sat under a torn awning. Two players. One crowd. No House text visible, but everyone knew better than to interrupt.
Cole watched from the edge.
The hand should've ended clean. Pair versus nothing. Simple.
Instead, the cards slid.
Not dealt.
Slid.
The winning card twisted half a degree and revealed a symbol that hadn't been there a moment before. Not a spade. Not a heart.
Something warped.
The loser stared. "That wasn't—"
The winner didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Blood ran from his nose in a thin, steady line. He swayed once and went down hard, cracking his head on stone.
The crowd scattered.
No one touched the body.
Cole felt the Ace of Spades go colder against his ribs.
He turned down a side street and followed the feeling.
It led him to coats.
Three of them.
Different cuts. Different owners. Same lining.
Bear hide.
Thin strips sewn where warmth mattered most. Inside collars. Along spines. Around wrists.
Mutated hide.
Diluted, but still wrong.
A woman laughed too loud as she passed him. Too much energy for the day. Her eyes were bright. Focused. Dangerous. The hide flashed at her cuff when she gestured.
Cole stopped.
Counted.
At least six people wore pieces.
Probably more.
The trade hadn't ended at the river.
It had multiplied.
That was the House's favorite trick.
Cole moved deeper into Rustline until the buildings leaned closer and the air smelled like burned fuel and desperation. A gust of wind kicked dust up in a spiral that held shape too long before collapsing.
A Dealer stood at the corner of a broken bank. Long coat. Blank eyes. Watching the street like it was a ledger.
Cole met his gaze.
The Dealer didn't smile.
"City's acting up," Cole said.
The Dealer nodded. "Value leakage."
"That what you're calling it now."
"Accurate terms matter," the Dealer replied. "Sentiment doesn't."
Cole glanced back at the street. "That hide's doing this."
The Dealer didn't deny it. That was answer enough.
"Why let it spread," Cole asked.
The Dealer's eyes flicked toward the center of Rustline, where the largest tables waited.
"Because containment is also a wager," he said. "And the House prefers to see who overreaches first."
Cole felt a familiar anger rise. Cold. Clean.
"So people die," he said.
The Dealer's voice stayed level. "People always die."
Cole leaned closer. "You're letting a bad trade destabilize a whole city."
The Dealer finally looked at him properly. "You call it bad because you didn't profit."
Cole straightened.
"That hide killed a man."
"Yes," the Dealer said. "And saved a woman. Net change unresolved."
Cole's jaw tightened.
A shout rose from the street behind them. A runner stumbled past, clutching his side. Blood soaked his shirt. He collapsed ten paces away, gasping.
No visible wound.
Just bad luck arriving all at once.
The Dealer watched without moving.
"That's not accounting," Cole said. "That's rot."
The Dealer considered him. "Rot spreads fastest where value is misunderstood."
"Then explain it," Cole said.
The Dealer shook his head. "Explanation changes outcomes."
Cole turned away before his hand did something permanent.
He followed the disturbance as it grew. Weather shifts. Sudden cold drafts. Heat pockets where sweat broke out in seconds. Rustline's pulse went uneven, like a heart skipping beats.
At a market stall, a woman screamed when her trade went wrong. She'd offered berries for bullets. The bullets came back in her hand as sand. Still warm.
Cole stepped back as the stall owner fled.
He understood now.
Each piece of hide carried a fraction of the original distortion. Not enough to dominate. Enough to bend.
Together, they made a field.
Rustline was standing in it.
The House remained silent.
That was consent.
Cole found the young woman from the river near dusk.
Not at a table.
Watching them.
She stood on a balcony overlooking the main square, coat wrapped tight, hide seams hidden but felt. She didn't turn when he approached.
"You see it," she said.
"I see the damage," Cole replied.
She nodded. "I see opportunity."
"That's the difference between us," Cole said.
She finally faced him. Her eyes were sharper now. Calculating. She'd learned fast.
"I didn't cause this," she said. "I accelerated it."
Cole laughed once. No humor. "You turned a resource into contagion."
"And you turned grief into purpose," she shot back. "We all convert what we have."
Below them, a table flared to life without warning. Cards snapping into place. The crowd surged, hungry.
Cole felt it then.
The shift.
Not a ripple.
A decision.
Text bled into his vision for the first time since entering Rustline.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // REGIONAL INSTABILITYCAUSE: DISTRIBUTED VALUE ANOMALYSTATUS: UNDER OBSERVATIONNOTE: TABLE PRIORITY ADJUSTED
Priority.
Cole looked toward the center of the city.
One table stood apart from the others. Larger. Cleaner. Empty.
Waiting.
The woman followed his gaze.
"They're closing in on you," she said. "On all of us."
Cole didn't answer.
He watched as a Royal agent stepped into the square—coat immaculate, presence flattening the noise around him. The crowd pulled back instinctively.
Containment was coming.
And with it, choices that weren't choices.
Cole turned away from the balcony.
"This city's about to pick a direction," he said.
The woman smiled thinly. "It already has."
He mounted the mule and rode toward the waiting table.
Behind him, Rustline shuddered as another hand went wrong.
Ahead of him, inevitability sat patient and level, a chair pulled out, his name already carved into the grain.