The application arrived through official network channels.Name: Daniel Foster. Age: Nineteen. Background: Survived a failed ritual attempt at seventeen. Wanted to join as a volunteer, possibly train as a practitioner. References from three therapists and a social worker.Something in the application clicked. The seriousness of the statement of intent. The rawness of his story. I decided to interview him personally.We met in a café in Oxford. Daniel was thin, pale, with eyes that had seen too much too young. Scars on his forearms, no effort to hide them."Thanks for seeing me," he said. His voice was low but firm. "I know you probably think that I'm too young or too damaged to be of any use."Tell me what happened. Your application mentioned a failed ritual but not details.He took a deep breath. "My father went bankrupt when I was sixteen. Lost everything. He found information about the Ashbourne ritual before your prevention work was widespread. He decided I was the sacrifice he ne

The copycat epidemic ended eighteen months after Thomas's betrayal.Dr. Santos, who was still tracking our data, confirmed it during the quarterly review. "You've had zero attempted Ashbourne rituals in twelve months. The threshold is met. The epidemic is over."The network had accomplished what it had set out to do. The ritual which destroyed my family was now recognized universally as fatal. Forums were warning against it, practitioners refused to facilitate it, and even desperately struggling people looked elsewhere for solutions."This is what success looks like," Sarah said. "Not perfect prevention of all supernatural harm. But complete cultural rejection of one specific deadly practice. We did it."Soon afterward, the Council of Shadows summoned me. All seven members were present, as they had been at my original judgment."Victoria Ashbourne," the lead figure said. "Two years ago, we bound you to remediation. Tasked you with stopping the epidemic your disclosure created. You hav

The letter from a solicitor arrived in late spring.Dear Miss Ashbourne, We represent the estate of Constance Ashbourne, your great-aunt who passed away last month. You are named as sole beneficiary. Please contact our office to discuss the inheritance.I hadn't known I had a great-aunt. My family tree was something I'd avoided examining too closely, too much darkness in those branches."Could be a trap," Sarah warned when I told her. "The Inheritors might be using it as bait. Get you somewhere isolated to attack."But curiosity won. I contacted the solicitor, verified the legitimacy, and traveled to Yorkshire where Constance had lived.The estate was a small manor house. Nothing like Ashbourne Manor, but substantial. The solicitor, Mr. Pemberton, greeted me with professional courtesy."Your great-aunt was a remarkable woman. Lived to ninety-three, kept her mental faculties until the end. She was quite specific that you should inherit everything.""I never met her. Did she say why she

Daniel's breakdown happened on a Tuesday afternoon.I was reviewing case files when Sarah called, her voice tight with concern. "Victoria, you need to come to the volunteer center. Daniel's having some kind of episode."I found him in one of the counseling rooms, curled on the floor, hyperventilating. His ritual scars were glowing, not metaphorically, actually glowing with faint blue light. That had never happened before."Daniel, look at me. Focus on my voice." I knelt beside him, keeping my tone steady and calm.He looked up. His eyes were wild, unfocused. "I can feel them. All of them. Everyone who's ever attempted a ritual. Everyone who died. They're screaming and I can't make it stop."His sensitivity had always been heightened by his marking, but this was different. This was an overwhelming psychic reception, his gifts spiraling out of control."Sarah, get Dr. Marsh. Now. And call his therapist."I stayed with Daniel, talking him through breathing exercises, trying to ground him

Dr. Marsh called me to her office on a spring morning."Sit down, Victoria. I have something difficult to tell you."The tone warned me. Something serious was coming."I'm dying. Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. The doctors give me six months, possibly less."The words didn't make sense at first. Dr. Marsh was eternal, unchanging, the foundation everything was built on. She couldn't be dying."There must be treatments. Options. We have resources now. Money for the best specialists.""I've consulted specialists. The cancer is too advanced. I could undergo aggressive treatment that might give me a few more months of poor quality life. Or I can decline treatment and use the time I have remaining productively.""What are you choosing?""Productive time. Victoria, I've lived seventy-three years. Trained dozens of practitioners. Built a life's work I'm proud of. Six months is enough time to ensure continuity. To prepare the network for operating without me.""We can't operate without you.""Y