Dawn came without warmth.
The survivors of Keth Varain stirred quietly in the ravine, bodies stiff from cold stone and fear. Some packed what little remained of their belongings. Others simply sat, staring at nothing, as if their minds had not yet accepted that their homes were gone.
Aerun stood apart from them, watching the road above.
Ash still clung to his cloak. He had not brushed it away.
The world felt wrong in the early light. Not broken—corrected. As if reality itself had agreed with what had happened.
That unsettled him more than the destruction.
A horn sounded.
Low. Measured. Mortal.
Aerun straightened instantly.
Riders crested the ridge above the ravine, their silhouettes sharp against the pale sky. Twelve of them, armored in steel rather than white-gold, though the same glowing sigils burned into their flesh—on throats, forearms, beneath the eyes.
Crown-Chosen retainers.
At their head rode a man whose presence bent attention toward him without effort.
Talrek Vos.
He dismounted slowly, movements precise, deliberate. His armor bore gold filigree but no excessive ornamentation. A faint sigil hovered above his brow, rotating lazily like a brand suspended in air.
Talrek surveyed the ravine, his gaze lingering on the villagers before settling on Aerun.
"You survived," Talrek said.
"I wasn't the one being judged," Aerun replied.
Talrek's mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "Judgment is rarely fair."
He gestured casually, and his retainers spread out, blocking the ravine's exits. The villagers stiffened.
Aerun stepped forward at once. "They're leaving."
"They already have," Talrek said. "Eastward, I assume. Sensible."
Aerun's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you here?"
Talrek regarded him thoughtfully. "Because you delayed a decree. And because someone must be held responsible when heaven is inconvenienced."
Aerun said nothing.
Talrek's gaze flicked briefly to the wrapped sword on Aerun's back. His expression did not change—but something in his eyes sharpened.
"You escorted civilians away from a marked site," Talrek continued. "You spoke against destiny. You forced divine escalation."
"I upheld the accords," Aerun said.
Talrek nodded. "So you claim."
He raised his voice slightly. "Sentinel Aerun Kaelthar, by authority vested in me by the High Chorus and the Karveth Throne, you are ordered to return to the capital and testify before the Silent Archivists."
Several villagers cried out in protest.
Aerun did not look at them.
"History will decide," Talrek added calmly.
Aerun felt the weight of that sentence settle heavily in his chest.
"No," he said. "Power will."
Talrek's smile faded.
"You mistake me," he said quietly. "History is power."
Aerun turned to the villagers. "You leave now. Do not wait."
One of the elders stepped forward. "Sentinel—"
"Now," Aerun said, gently but firmly.
They obeyed.
As the last of them disappeared into the eastern pass, Talrek watched in silence. He made no move to stop them.
"That mercy," Talrek said at last, "will be recorded as obstruction."
Aerun met his gaze. "Then record it honestly."
Talrek laughed softly. "Honesty is a luxury reserved for victors."
He gestured again.
Two retainers stepped forward and seized Aerun's arms. Aethrin flared faintly where their hands touched him, burning cold against his skin.
Aerun did not resist.
As they bound his wrists, Talrek leaned closer.
"You should have stood aside," Talrek murmured. "Sentinels exist because the gods allow restraint. Not because they respect it."
Aerun's voice was low. "Then why are you here personally?"
Talrek paused.
"For curiosity," he admitted. "And because heaven asked me to remember your face."
The capital rose like a monument to obedience.
White stone towers gleamed beneath the sun, their surfaces carved with prayers and laws alike. Massive banners hung from battlements, each marked with the sigil of divine sanction.
Aerun was marched through its gates in chains.
Citizens watched in silence. Some bowed. Others whispered. A few stared openly, disbelief written across their faces.
A Sentinel in chains was an omen.
They brought him to the Hall of Records.
The chamber was circular, vast, and unnaturally cold. Stone tablets floated in the air along the walls, inscribed with glowing script that shifted constantly, erasing and rewriting itself.
The Silent Archivists stood in a ring around the center dais, their faces hidden behind silver veils.
Talrek released Aerun at the center of the hall.
"Sentinel Aerun Kaelthar," intoned the lead Archivist, voice flat and distant. "You are charged with delaying divine correction, inciting civilian unrest, and obstructing destiny."
Aerun lifted his chin. "I am charged with keeping my oath."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the chamber.
"Oaths," the Archivist replied, "exist to serve destiny."
"No," Aerun said. "They exist to restrain it."
Silence fell.
Talrek stepped forward. "The Sentinel acted without authorization. His interference necessitated increased divine response."
Aerun turned sharply. "Response?"
"The settlement was purged," Talrek said. "Completely."
Aerun's breath caught.
The Archivists raised their hands. Runes flared across the tablets.
"And thus," the lead Archivist declared, "history will record: Sentinel Aerun Kaelthar incited resistance, resulting in divine correction."
Aerun stared at the shifting script.
This was not judgment.
It was editing.
"You're lying," he said quietly.
"We are recording," the Archivist corrected.
Aerun understood then.
The truth no longer mattered.
They released him at dusk.
No sentence yet. No declaration.
Only waiting.
As Aerun crossed the courtyard, he saw the Sentinel barracks ahead—and something hanging in its center.
His mentor.
The body swayed gently in the evening wind, a scorched sigil burned into the chest.
Aerun stopped.
The world narrowed to a single point.
Talrek stood beside him, expression unreadable.
"This," Talrek said, "is the cost of defiance."
Aerun did not speak.
A voice slid into his mind—vast, cold, unmistakable.
"You exist by permission."
Aerun's hands clenched.
"If this is justice," he whispered, "then I will never kneel again."
The pressure descended instantly.
Stone cracked beneath his feet. Guards staggered back as Aethrin flooded the courtyard.
Aerun reached back—
Not to draw his sword.
Only to steady himself against its presence.
For a heartbeat, the pressure vanished.
The sigils flickered.
The voice hesitated.
"…What are you?"
Aerun straightened slowly.
"Someone who remembers," he said.
Night fell over the capital.
And somewhere, unseen hands began to erase his name.