The river didn't like hesitation.
As Mara stepped back, the half-formed layers she'd created wavered, edges fraying like cloth left in water too long. The lanterns in the village flickered again, shadows stretching where they shouldn't.
[Partition instability: Moderate.]
"First rule," I said quietly, kneeling at the riverbank, "never abandon a partition without an anchor."
Mara watched closely, arms folded. "I thought anchoring fixes reality to a point. That's dangerous."
"It is," I replied. "If you anchor to the wrong thing."
I pressed my palm to the damp earth, not forcing mana into the river, but letting it pass through me—slow, measured, human.
[Memory Anchor — Intermediate.]
The ache behind my eyes flared, then settled.
I didn't anchor the partition to stone, or water, or even the land.
I anchored it to flow.
The layered seams softened, aligning themselves with the river's natural current instead of resisting it. The shimmering distortion thinned, then stabilized, becoming almost invisible.
The lanterns below burned steady.
[Stability improved.]
Mara's eyes widened. "You didn't freeze it."
"No," I said. "I taught it where to move."
She crouched beside me, studying the river with renewed caution. "That costs you memory, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
I considered lying.
"Enough," I said instead.
She nodded slowly. "That's why the Academy never taught this. You can't quantify it."
"And because it can't be scaled," I added. "Every anchor is personal."
Silence stretched between us, filled by the sound of water finally behaving like water again.
Mara broke it. "You're different from the others."
"Others?" I asked.
She hesitated. "There are at least three more like us. Maybe more. Some learned at the Academy. Some… didn't."
My chest tightened.
"How many are still stable?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"…Two," she said at last.
That told me everything.
I stood, wiping my hand on my cloak. "Then we don't work like the Academy. And we don't work alone."
Mara straightened. "You're suggesting coordination."
"I'm suggesting limits," I replied. "Shared rules. Shared warnings. And someone who says no—even when it hurts."
She studied me, searching for something. "And who decides that?"
I met her gaze evenly. "Whoever remembers the cost best."
A bitter smile touched her lips. "That's a terrible qualification."
"I know."
The river was quiet now. The village slept on, unaware of how close it had come to unraveling.
Mara turned away first. "There's a crossroads two days east. Old shrine. Broken wards, but still… neutral."
"A meeting place," I said.
She nodded. "If the others come."
"And if they don't?"
Her shoulders tightened. "Then we prepare for the ones who won't listen."
She started down the path toward the village, then paused. "Warden," she said, using the name I'd chosen.
"Yes?"
"If this fails—if coordination just creates a bigger collapse—"
"I'll stop it," I said quietly. "Even if that means stopping us."
She held my gaze for a long moment, then gave a short nod and disappeared into the dark.
I remained by the river, feeling the anchor hold, feeling the faint pull of erosion settle back into a dull throb.
Two Guardians weren't a solution.
But they were a beginning.
As I turned away, a final thought surfaced—unwelcome, but necessary:
If forgotten magic was accelerating…
Then something was pushing it.
And soon, anchors wouldn't be enough.