The land beyond the boundary stones did not welcome him.
Aerun felt it within the first hour of walking—how the ground grew uneven, how the air lacked the faint, ever-present pressure he had known all his life. The world here did not bend subtly toward divine order. It existed without correction.
It felt older.
He followed no road. Only instinct and the faint slope of the land guided him eastward, away from the Dominion's reach. The sky above was clear, stars sharp and numerous, unfiltered by sacred veils or blessing light.
By dawn, his legs ached.
By noon, he knew he was not alone.
Aerun slowed his pace, listening—not just with his ears, but with the instincts drilled into him by years of restraint and watchfulness. Wind moved through dead grass. Birds scattered.
Footsteps followed the pattern of pursuit.
Not soldiers.
Hunters.
He veered toward a line of broken stone—ruins half-buried beneath soil and moss. Old. Pre-divine. He slipped between fallen pillars and waited.
Moments later, figures emerged from the rise.
Three of them.
They wore no armor bearing sigils. No glowing marks burned into their flesh. Their cloaks were dark, practical, their movements disciplined but restrained.
Unrecorded agents.
Aerun's jaw tightened.
The Dominion denied his existence—and yet sent men to erase what could not be written.
He stepped from cover.
"Turn back," he said.
The hunters froze.
One of them laughed softly. "You hear that? It speaks."
Aerun studied them calmly. "You've crossed the boundary stones."
Another hunter spat. "We were never bound by them."
The third said nothing. His eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Talrek Vos sent you," Aerun said.
That earned a reaction—a flicker of tension.
"Orders are simple," the silent one said. "You don't exist. We make sure you stay that way."
They advanced.
Aerun did not draw his sword.
He moved.
Years of Sentinel training flowed through him—not as aggression, but control. He stepped into the first strike, redirecting the hunter's momentum and sending him crashing into stone. The second lunged; Aerun twisted, hooked an arm, and dropped him hard to the ground.
The third was faster.
A blade flashed.
Aerun felt pain slice across his shoulder as steel bit flesh. He grunted but did not falter. He seized the attacker's wrist, twisted sharply, and drove his elbow into the man's chest.
Bone cracked.
The hunter staggered back, gasping.
Aerun stood breathing hard, blood soaking into his sleeve.
"Leave," he said again.
The remaining hunters hesitated.
Then—retreated.
They vanished into the grass without another word.
Aerun sank against a fallen pillar, pressing a hand to his wound. It burned, but it was clean. Mortal pain.
He almost welcomed it.
That was when he noticed the tracks.
Not the hunters'.
Lighter. Careful. Someone had been here before them.
Someone watching.
Aerun's eyes scanned the ruins.
"Show yourself," he said quietly.
Nothing moved.
But he felt it—certainty, not threat.
Whoever it was had chosen not to intervene.
By evening, the land changed.
Trees grew closer together, their roots exposed, twisting over stone like grasping fingers. Old markers lay shattered, inscriptions worn smooth by time.
Aerun made camp near a shallow stream.
As he cleaned his wound, he noticed something strange.
The water flowed around his wrapped sword without rippling.
He frowned, lifting the blade slightly.
The stream corrected itself instantly, as if reluctant to touch it.
Aerun lowered the sword again, unsettled.
He did not speak of it.
The fire burned low as night deepened.
That was when the sound reached him.
Paper.
The soft rasp of parchment moving.
Aerun turned sharply.
At the edge of the firelight, a figure stood just beyond reach of the flames.
Not armed.
Not hostile.
A woman.
She wore a travel cloak stained with ink and dust rather than blood. A satchel hung at her side, heavy with something that shifted when she moved. Her posture was alert, but not aggressive.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to notice," she said.
Aerun rose slowly.
"You followed me."
She shrugged. "You walked very obviously."
"I don't need company."
"I'm not offering it."
They studied each other in silence.
Her eyes flicked briefly to the wrapped sword at his back—then away. No fear. Only curiosity.
"You're farther from the Dominion than most erased men get," she said. "Impressive."
Aerun's gaze hardened. "Who are you?"
She hesitated.
"Someone who no longer exists," she replied. "At least, officially."
That answer told him enough.
"Then keep walking," Aerun said.
She smiled faintly. "I might. But you should know—those hunters will return. With permission next time."
Aerun said nothing.
She adjusted her satchel. "If you're heading east, you'll reach the old roads by morning. They're dangerous."
"I'll manage."
"Of course you will," she said dryly. "You're very good at standing where you shouldn't."
She turned and began to walk away.
Then paused.
"For what it's worth," she added, without looking back, "the village deserved better."
And then she was gone.
Aerun remained standing long after the fire died, staring into the darkness where she had disappeared.
For the first time since exile—
Someone had spoken the truth aloud.