Butch the Wereboar

The memory shard in Butch's hand flares with ink-black light, and the Debt-Collector stumbles as if the beam strikes a hidden wound. Its ledger frays at the edges, shadow-threads unspooling into the air.

Sable keeps low at Butch's side, shield angled toward the breach. The basin of black water shudders and boils, as if something beneath it has lost its grip.

The Debt-Collector's scroll jerks hard in its grasp. The parchment darkens, then answers Butch's sigil with the same sickly pulse, revealing it as a living extension of the mark, a leash made of written debt.

The scroll splits along its seal, and the black threads running through it snap back toward Butch's arm. The Collector flickers, suddenly thin and half-remembered, while the basin below roars with a voice that is not a voice.

Butch catches the snapping threads in his fist and jerks them sideways. The black leash goes taut, and the Debt-Collector lurches hard toward the chamber center.

Its shape skews and gutters, dragged out of alignment with the writ it clings to. The basin below splashes black spray against the stone rim.

The pulled threads tear free from the scroll and whip into Butch's sigil instead, feeding it a violent pulse. The Collector staggers, suddenly weightless and exposed.

The Hooded Figure leans in from the chamber edge, eyes wide at the fraying bond. In the breach, shadow leaks like smoke from a split seam.

The Debt-Collector's ledger arm crumples inward, its authority broken for the first time. It still stands, but the debt no longer answers to it.