Aerun woke before dawn.
Not to sound—but to the absence of it.
The forest lay unnaturally still. No insects. No wind through leaves. Even the stream nearby had slowed to a cautious trickle.
Aerun's hand was already on the hilt wrapped at his back when he opened his eyes.
Nothing moved.
He exhaled slowly and rose, scanning the tree line. The camp showed no sign of disturbance. No footprints. No broken branches.
And yet—
Someone stood at the edge of his awareness.
"You sleep lightly," a voice said.
Aerun turned.
The woman from the night before leaned against a tree a few paces away, arms folded, expression mildly impressed. She had changed positions without making a sound.
"You follow poorly," Aerun replied.
She smiled. "You pretend not to notice."
Aerun studied her carefully now. She carried no visible weapon. Her satchel was heavy, reinforced at the seams, marked with faded sigils he recognized immediately.
Archivist script.
"You worked in the Hall of Records," he said.
Her smile vanished.
"Worked," she corrected. "Briefly. Until I asked the wrong questions."
She stepped closer, eyes sharp. "You're really gone, aren't you? No sigils. No pressure. I thought it was a rumor."
Aerun turned away and began packing his camp. "You should leave."
"I already did," she said. "Years ago."
He paused.
"Then why come back?" he asked.
She hesitated, then answered honestly. "Because the world doesn't match the records anymore."
Aerun resumed his work. "It never did."
"That's not what I mean," she said. "Names are disappearing faster. Events rewritten before they finish happening. That doesn't happen unless—"
She stopped.
Aerun glanced at her. "Unless what?"
"Unless something broke."
They stood in silence.
Finally, she extended a hand. "Lyrae."
Aerun regarded it, then shook once. "Aerun."
Her eyes flicked briefly to his back. "I know."
They set off east together as the sun crested the trees.
By midday, the forest thinned into broken hills littered with ancient stone markers. Some were toppled. Others cracked clean through, as if struck by something immense long ago.
Lyrae moved with practiced caution, always a step behind Aerun, watching the land more than him.
"They won't stop hunting you," she said casually.
"I know."
"They won't record it either."
Aerun glanced at her. "Meaning?"
"Meaning if you die out here," she said, "history won't notice."
Aerun considered that. "Good."
She scoffed. "You say that now."
They crested a ridge—and froze.
Below them, the land dipped into a shallow valley.
And something was wrong.
The air shimmered faintly, as if heated—but cold to the touch. Stone markers lay pulverized, reduced to dust. At the center of it all stood a group of figures in white-and-gold armor.
Holy vanguard.
Lyrae cursed softly. "They moved fast."
Aerun's gaze narrowed. "They crossed the boundary stones."
"Yes," she said grimly. "Which means they have permission."
The soldiers did not move. They stood as if waiting.
For him.
Aerun stepped forward.
Lyrae grabbed his arm. "Are you insane?"
"They came for me."
"And you think that makes it your responsibility?"
"Yes."
She stared at him, incredulous. "You're not even bound anymore!"
Aerun gently removed her hand. "That doesn't change who I am."
He descended into the valley.
The moment his boots touched the shattered stone, the Aethrin flared.
Light crawled across the soldiers' armor—but flickered violently, unstable. The air thickened, then wavered.
The soldiers noticed.
Several glanced down at their sigils in confusion.
Aerun felt it then—the familiar warmth at his back, stronger now, pressing against his spine like a held breath.
He did not draw the sword.
He kept walking.
The closer he came, the more the divine light distorted, bending away from him like smoke from wind.
One soldier stepped forward, voice tight. "Halt."
Aerun stopped.
"You are not recognized," the soldier said, uncertainty creeping into his tone. "Identify yourself."
Aerun met his gaze.
"I was erased," he said.
The sigil on the soldier's chest flickered—and went dark.
Panic rippled through the formation.
"What did you do?" one of them demanded.
Aerun said nothing.
Behind him, Lyrae stared in disbelief.
"This isn't suppression," she whispered. "This is—"
The air snapped.
A surge of divine force erupted outward, knocking Aerun back several steps. Pain lanced through his chest as he hit the ground hard.
The warmth at his back spiked—then vanished.
The soldiers retreated instantly, formation breaking as fear overtook discipline.
"This place is compromised!" one shouted. "Fall back!"
They withdrew in disarray, their light sputtering wildly as they fled the valley.
Silence followed.
Lyrae rushed to Aerun's side, helping him sit up. "You didn't touch them."
"No."
"You didn't invoke anything."
"No."
She stared at the wrapped sword on his back, awe and fear warring in her expression.
"What are you carrying?"
Aerun shook his head. "I don't know."
She laughed once—short and sharp. "That's worse."
They remained in the valley until the air settled.
Lyrae finally stood. "We can't go east anymore. Not directly."
Aerun rose slowly. "Why?"
"Because now they know you don't just disobey," she said. "You disrupt."
She met his eyes.
"And gods hate anomalies."
Aerun adjusted the strap across his shoulder.
"Then we keep moving," he said.
Lyrae nodded, resolve hardening in her gaze.
"Yes," she agreed. "But next time, you listen to me."
Aerun almost smiled.