The Hall of Records burned without fire.
Lyrae lay on the stone floor, breath ragged, vision swimming as the last echoes of alignment screamed themselves silent. The slate beside her had split cleanly in two, its glyphs bleeding light that evaporated before touching the air.
Guards surrounded her.
Not Archivists.
Wardens.
They did not rush. They did not shout. They simply closed the space, reality tightening around her like a closing hand.
"You introduced an unauthorized causal link," one of them said calmly. "Explain."
Lyrae laughed weakly. "I wrote what was already there."
The Warden crouched in front of her, eyes empty of curiosity. "History does not permit motive."
"Then history is lying," Lyrae spat.
The Warden rose.
"Seize her."
They did not bind her hands.
They bound her name.
Aerun felt it the instant it happened.
Not pain.
Not pressure.
Loss.
The warmth at his back flared sharply, then recoiled—as if something it recognized had been folded away.
Lyrae.
He staggered forward, gripping the cell wall as the correction lines along the stone pulsed violently, trying to reassert control.
"Lyrae," he whispered.
Footsteps echoed.
Talrek Vos entered slowly, face pale, jaw tight.
"You should never have stayed silent," Talrek said.
Aerun turned on him, fury sharp and sudden. "Where is she?"
Talrek did not answer immediately.
"She committed a violation," he said instead. "One that cannot be undone."
Aerun stepped closer to the door, chains rattling softly. "What did you do to her?"
Talrek met his gaze.
"We removed her from causality."
The words rang hollow.
"You erased her," Aerun said.
"No," Talrek corrected. "We suspended her. She exists—but not in sequence. She will not be harmed."
Aerun laughed once, broken. "You think that makes it better?"
Talrek's composure cracked.
"She forced our hand," he snapped. "She showed the system its own fear. Do you understand what that risks?"
"I understand exactly," Aerun said. "You're losing control."
Talrek inhaled sharply, then exhaled.
"Yes," he admitted. "And you are the reason."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Talrek spoke again—quietly.
"You can end this," he said. "Publicly. Speak. Accept authority. We restore her place."
Aerun's hands clenched.
"You'll lie about it," he said. "You'll say I repented."
Talrek didn't deny it.
"You'll let people sleep," Talrek replied. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
Aerun closed his eyes.
Images flooded him—the village square, the herald stone, Lyrae's steady defiance, the slate flashing white.
"If I speak," Aerun said slowly, "you'll make her a footnote."
Talrek's voice softened. "Alive."
Aerun opened his eyes.
"No," he said.
Talrek stepped back as if struck.
"Then she remains… unresolved," he said.
He turned to leave.
"Tomorrow," Talrek added over his shoulder, "the Chorus will announce you as the cause of the recent instability."
The door closed.
The correction lines flared.
Aerun stood alone.
Lyrae floated.
There was no pain.
No darkness.
Just pause.
Moments did not pass. They stacked.
She could see fragments—tablets mid-shift, guards frozen mid-step, script half-written and trembling.
She existed between revisions.
"So," she murmured to herself, "this is how they hide mistakes."
A presence moved nearby.
Not divine.
Not mortal.
Quiet.
"You are not where you should be," something said.
Lyrae turned slowly.
"What if I never was?" she replied.
The presence did not answer.
But it did not leave.
Dawn broke across the capital.
Beacons flared.
Messengers ran.
In the lower districts, people woke to whispers they could not trace to a source.
Something is wrong.History is shaking.A man refused to speak.
Aerun felt it through the walls—the city holding its breath.
The warmth at his back stirred, stronger now, restless.
For the first time since exile, it did not wait.
It pressed.
Aerun placed his forehead against the cold stone.
"I won't trade truth for comfort," he said aloud.
The walls did not respond.
But far beneath them, something old and patient adjusted its count.