Edrin reached the southern road on the fourth day after leaving Greyhaven.
By then, the snow had thinned, and patches of frozen earth showed through the white. The road itself was narrow and poorly maintained, but it was unmistakably a trade route. Old wheel tracks and boot prints marked its surface, some fresh, some long buried beneath layers of ice.
It was proof that the world beyond Greyhaven still existed.
That realization brought Edrin no comfort.
His body moved forward, one step at a time, but his thoughts lagged behind. Each breath felt heavier than it should have. The dull ache in his chest remained constant, as if his body were reminding him that something had gone wrong and never fully corrected itself.
He checked his hands while walking.
They were steady.
Cold, scarred, but steady.
A man who had died should not look like this.
The town of Branford came into view shortly before dusk.
Stone walls encircled it, modest in height but well maintained. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the faint sound of voices carried through the air. Guards stood at the gate, stamping their feet to keep warm.
Life.
Normal, ordinary life.
Edrin slowed his steps as he approached, suddenly aware of how he must look. His clothes were torn and mismatched. His boots were damaged beyond repair. His face was thin, eyes shadowed by exhaustion.
A survivor.
Or something pretending to be one.
At the gate, a guard raised a hand.
"Hold."
Edrin stopped.
"Name?" the guard asked, eyeing him carefully.
"Edrin."
"Origin?"
"Greyhaven Village."
The guard frowned.
"That place was wiped out weeks ago."
"I know," Edrin said. "I was there."
The second guard shifted his grip on his spear. They studied Edrin more closely now, taking in the scars, the stiffness in his movements, the way he stood without any obvious fear.
"You alone?" one of them asked.
"Yes."
The guards exchanged glances. Finally, one of them stepped aside.
"You can enter," he said. "But keep your head down. And don't bring trouble."
Edrin nodded and walked through the gate.
Branford was not large, but it was busy.
Merchants packed up their stalls for the night. Children ran between buildings, laughing despite the cold. Somewhere nearby, a bell rang to mark the end of the day's work.
Edrin stood still for a moment, letting the noise wash over him.
After the silence of Greyhaven, it felt overwhelming.
He found an inn near the eastern district and traded labor for a bed and meals. The innkeeper did not ask many questions. People passed through Branford often enough that another stranger raised little suspicion.
That night, Edrin slept poorly.
Dreams came and went without shape or meaning. He woke several times, heart racing, convinced for brief moments that he was still trapped beneath the rubble.
Each time, he checked his body.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
The days that followed settled into routine.
Edrin took whatever work he could find. Carrying supplies. Cleaning stables. Helping craftsmen with simple tasks. He kept his head down and avoided drawing attention.
It should have been enough.
But something was wrong.
Not immediately. Not obviously.
At first, it was small things.
A cut on his hand closed faster than expected. A bruise faded in days instead of weeks. After lifting heavy crates, his muscles ached, but the soreness disappeared by the next morning.
People noticed.
"You recover fast," one worker said casually.
Edrin smiled and said nothing.
He stopped taking risks after that.
Weeks passed.
Winter loosened its grip. Snow melted, revealing muddy streets and swollen rivers. Branford grew livelier as trade increased.
Edrin stayed.
He waited.
For sickness.
For weakness.
For delayed consequences.
None came.
Instead, time moved forward.
People around him changed. Faces gained new lines. Hair thinned. Joints stiffened.
Edrin remained the same.
That realization came slowly, like pressure building beneath the surface.
The first death he witnessed in Branford happened quietly.
An elderly woman collapsed near the well in the eastern square. Someone shouted. A crowd gathered. A priest arrived too late to do anything.
Edrin watched from a distance.
There was no struggle. No hesitation.
The woman's life ended cleanly.
When the body was carried away, Edrin felt something twist in his chest.
Not fear.
Not grief.
Envy.
That disturbed him more than anything else.
That night, Edrin did not sleep.
He lay awake in his rented room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the inn settling around him.
A question formed, uninvited.
What would it take to kill me?
The thought frightened him.
But it did not leave.
Before dawn, Edrin left the town quietly.
He walked toward the river south of Branford, where melted snow had swollen the current. The water rushed fast and dark, carrying debris downstream.
No one was nearby.
Edrin stood at the edge for a long time.
He was not brave.
He was afraid.
But uncertainty had become worse than fear.
He stepped forward.
The river took him immediately.
Cold water slammed into his chest. His footing vanished. The current dragged him under, spinning him violently. Water forced its way into his lungs, burning as it filled him.
Pain exploded.
Darkness closed in.
And then..
Nothing ended.
Edrin woke coughing violently on the riverbank.
Water poured from his mouth as his body convulsed. His limbs shook uncontrollably. Every breath hurt.
But his heart was beating.
His lungs were working.
He rolled onto his side and lay there, staring at the sky through blurred vision.
He knew what had happened.
He had drowned.
There was no doubt about it.
Yet he was alive.
Again.
Edrin did not return to Branford.
He gathered what little he had and left before the sun rose fully. This time, he did not walk slowly.
Fear drove him forward.
Luck could explain Greyhaven.
Luck could not explain this.
Something fundamental had gone wrong.
And for the first time since he opened his eyes beneath the rubble, Edrin allowed himself to accept the truth he had been avoiding.
He was not surviving by chance.
He was surviving because death was not taking him.
Far beyond the mortal world, the great record continued to operate.
Lives were tallied.
Deaths were processed.
Balance was maintained.
No alert was triggered.
The system did not yet understand that it was missing something.
But the absence was growing.
And absence, when left long enough, always draws attention.