They did not follow the valley.
That was Lyrae's decision.
"The land remembers what happened there," she said as they climbed into higher ground. "So will anyone who comes looking."
Aerun did not argue. His chest still ached where the divine surge had struck him, a deep, lingering pressure that felt more conceptual than physical.
As if something had pushed him back into existence.
They moved north instead, along a ridge where the wind cut sharp and cold. Below them, the broken hills stretched out in long shadows, empty and exposed.
Too exposed.
"They'll adapt," Lyrae said, as if reading his thoughts. "They always do."
Aerun glanced at her. "You sound certain."
"I worked for people who specialized in inevitability," she replied. "When force fails, they redefine the problem."
They stopped near a line of standing stones—ancient, half-eroded pillars etched with symbols no longer used. Lyrae brushed snow from one of them, revealing fractured script.
"This predates the Chorus," she murmured. "Back when gods had to argue."
Aerun frowned. "They still do."
Lyrae's smile was thin. "Not where we can hear it."
They felt the change before they saw it.
The air thickened, subtle at first, then unmistakable. The familiar pressure Aerun had lived under for most of his life began to creep back in—not as a blanket, but as a net being carefully lowered.
Lyrae stiffened. "They've updated your status."
Aerun stopped walking. "I'm erased."
"Erased doesn't mean ignored," she said. "It means unprotected."
A sound rolled across the hills.
Not thunder.
Footsteps.
Measured. Heavy. Many.
Aerun moved instinctively, guiding Lyrae behind the standing stones. From there, they watched as figures crested the far ridge.
Not holy vanguard.
Something else.
They wore dark armor etched with faint sigils that did not glow but absorbed light. Their cloaks bore no banners. Their faces were uncovered, marked by old scars and disciplined calm.
Lyrae's breath caught. "Those aren't soldiers."
"What are they?"
She swallowed. "Censors."
Aerun looked at her sharply.
"They don't enforce law," she explained quietly. "They enforce consistency. When something doesn't fit the narrative, they remove it. Quietly."
"How many?"
Lyrae counted quickly. "Eight. No—nine."
The Censors advanced without urgency, spreading out with practiced ease. Their movements suggested experience hunting things that could fight back.
One of them raised a hand.
The air clicked.
Aerun felt it immediately—the world tightening, aligning, as if invisible lines were being drawn around him.
Lyrae grabbed his arm. "They're anchoring reality. If they finish—"
The ground trembled.
Not violently.
Decisively.
The standing stones behind Aerun vibrated, ancient runes flickering weakly as if resisting something they had not felt in centuries.
The warmth at Aerun's back surged.
Not outward.
Inward.
He staggered, catching himself against the stone.
Lyrae stared at him. "Aerun—"
"Don't," he said through clenched teeth. "Stay behind me."
He stepped forward into open ground.
The Censors halted.
One of them—a woman with iron-grey hair—tilted her head slightly.
"Subject located," she said calmly. "Status: anomalous. Authorization confirmed."
Confirmed by whom? Aerun wondered.
"You are not recognized," another Censor said. "Do not resist."
Aerun did not draw his sword.
"I'm not resisting," he replied. "I'm standing."
The Censors advanced.
With each step they took, the world seemed to correct itself around them—grass flattening, wind aligning, sound narrowing. Aerun felt pressure build in his skull, a familiar suffocating presence trying to reassert itself.
Then it faltered.
The closer they came, the more unstable the effect became. Their sigils darkened. One of them stumbled, catching themselves with a curse.
"What's happening?" someone hissed.
The woman in front narrowed her eyes, gaze fixed not on Aerun's face—but on his back.
"Fall back two paces," she ordered.
They obeyed instantly.
The pressure stabilized.
Lyrae exhaled shakily. "They're testing distance."
Aerun's heart pounded. "Testing what?"
"Whatever you're carrying."
The lead Censor raised her voice. "You have something that interferes with authorization. Relinquish it."
Aerun shook his head. "I don't know what it is."
"That," she said flatly, "is unacceptable."
She raised her hand.
The air screamed.
A force slammed into Aerun, hurling him backward into the standing stones. Pain exploded across his ribs as stone cracked behind him.
Lyrae shouted his name.
Aerun slid to the ground, gasping.
The warmth at his back flared violently.
For a split second—
Everything went quiet.
No wind.
No footsteps.
No breath.
The Censors froze mid-motion, expressions flickering with confusion and fear.
Then the world rushed back in.
Aerun coughed, forcing himself upright. He had not drawn the sword.
He had not touched it.
And yet—
"Withdraw," the lead Censor snapped, voice tight. "This target is not viable under current parameters."
"What?" someone protested.
"Withdraw!" she repeated.
They retreated, movements no longer calm, no longer controlled.
When they were gone, the hills felt suddenly vast and empty.
Lyrae dropped to her knees beside Aerun, gripping his arm. "That wasn't suppression," she said, voice shaking. "That was rejection."
Aerun laughed weakly. "I don't feel very rejected."
She looked at him with something close to fear. "You should."
They did not speak as they moved on.
Only when the sun dipped low did Lyrae finally break the silence.
"I was wrong," she said.
Aerun glanced at her. "About?"
"About being erased," she replied. "You weren't removed from the system."
She met his gaze.
"You're incompatible with it."
Aerun adjusted the strap across his shoulder, feeling the steady warmth beneath the cloth.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
Lyrae hesitated.
Then spoke the truth.
"It means," she said quietly, "that someone made a mistake a long time ago."
Far away, in halls where light never dimmed, Talrek Vos stood before a shifting projection of the hills.
He watched the Censors retreat.
And for the first time—
He frowned.