Talrek Vos did not like unanswered reports.
He stood within the upper chamber of the Karveth Spire, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the floating projection before him. Light bent unnaturally around the image—an echo cast by divine authorization.
The hills beyond the boundary stones.
Empty now.
The projection replayed the moment again.
Censors advancing.Reality anchoring.Then—instability.
Talrek narrowed his eyes as the image showed the exact instant the formation broke.
"Pause," he said.
The light froze.
The Censors stood mid-step, expressions strained. Not afraid—but confused.
Talrek focused on the space around the target.
"There," he murmured.
The divine attendant beside him stiffened. "My lord?"
"Authorization failed," Talrek said calmly. "Not overridden. Rejected."
"That is not possible."
Talrek turned slowly. "Everything is possible when the system encounters something it was not designed to process."
The attendant swallowed. "He is still mortal."
Talrek's gaze sharpened. "That is precisely the problem."
Far beyond the Spire, Aerun walked beneath a sky thick with low clouds.
The land sloped downward into old ravines where water cut through stone that had not been touched by divine law in centuries. Every step felt heavier—not physically, but in consequence.
Lyrae broke the silence first.
"You felt that too, didn't you?"
Aerun nodded. "They stopped treating me like a threat."
"And started treating you like an error," she finished.
They descended into the ravine cautiously. Broken bridges lay collapsed across narrow crossings, remnants of older trade routes. Lyrae knelt beside one, brushing moss away from faded markings.
"These roads were erased," she said. "Not destroyed. Forgotten."
Aerun studied the stone. "Why?"
Lyrae looked up at him. "Because people used them to move without permission."
He absorbed that quietly.
They crossed the ravine just as dusk began to settle.
That was when the pressure returned.
Not sudden.
Measured.
Aerun stopped mid-step.
Lyrae cursed under her breath. "That's not pursuit."
"What is it?"
"Containment."
The clouds above twisted into slow, deliberate spirals. Not opening—aligning.
A voice rolled across the ravine, vast and impersonal.
"Anomaly identified."
Aerun did not kneel.
Lyrae's hands trembled, but she stayed standing.
"Subject Aerun Kaelthar exists outside permitted outcomes."
Aerun raised his chin. "So do a lot of people."
"Correction is required."
The ravine shook. Stone cracked. The pressure bore down, heavier than anything before.
Aerun felt his knees strain.
The warmth at his back intensified—not flaring, not exploding—but pressing outward, like a held breath refusing release.
Lyrae screamed as she was thrown backward, slamming into rock.
"Aerun!"
He staggered but stayed upright.
"I won't move," he said aloud. "And I won't kneel."
The pressure wavered.
"…Authority unclear."
The words rippled with distortion.
Aerun felt it then—something subtle but unmistakable.
The presence behind the pressure was not whole.
Not united.
Voices layered atop one another, arguing in silence.
Lyrae dragged herself upright, eyes wide. "They're divided," she whispered. "They don't agree."
The pressure snapped.
The clouds dispersed violently, ripping apart as if shoved aside.
The ravine fell silent.
Aerun dropped to one knee, gasping—not in pain, but exhaustion.
Lyrae rushed to him, gripping his shoulders. "That was a direct directive. You shouldn't have survived."
"I didn't do anything," Aerun said hoarsely.
She shook her head. "That's what terrifies them."
In the Spire, Talrek felt it.
The moment authority fractured.
His sigil flared painfully, burning hot against his skin. He clenched his jaw, refusing to react.
Around him, attendants staggered as divine channels destabilized.
Talrek exhaled slowly.
"So," he said to the empty chamber, "this is how it begins."
A projection formed before him—no longer of hills, but of Aerun.
Not his face.
His outline.
Blurry. Incomplete.
Unrecordable.
Talrek stared at it for a long time.
"Do not kill him," he said finally.
A shocked voice answered. "My lord?"
"Observe," Talrek continued. "Adapt. And above all—"
His eyes hardened.
"—do not let him choose where this ends."
Night fell heavy and cold.
Aerun and Lyrae made camp beneath an overhang, fire kept low.
Lyrae finally spoke the question she had been holding back.
"What happens," she asked quietly, "when the gods decide you're not a mistake—but a precedent?"
Aerun stared into the flames.
"Then," he said, "they'll have to learn restraint."
Lyrae laughed bitterly. "From them? Or from you?"
Aerun did not answer.
Far away, beneath layers of forgotten silence, something listened.
And waited.