The village was not marked.
That was the first thing Aerun noticed.
No sigils carved into the road. No divine banners. No pressure in the air that whispered of judgment waiting to fall. It was small—barely more than a cluster of stone houses hugging a bend in the river.
Ordinary.
Lyrae slowed beside him. "This place isn't on any current routes."
Aerun nodded. "Which means it's useful."
They approached openly.
People noticed immediately. Travelers were rare here, rarer still ones who carried themselves like Aerun—quiet, watchful, unafraid of being seen. Eyes followed them from doorways. Conversations stopped.
A man stepped forward near the well, hands raised in cautious greeting. "You passing through?"
"For now," Aerun said.
The man studied him, then Lyrae. His gaze lingered a moment too long.
"You're the one," he said slowly.
Lyrae stiffened.
"The one what?" Aerun asked.
"The one they warned us about," the man replied.
Aerun felt the shift ripple outward.
Warned.
"By whom?" Lyrae asked.
The man swallowed. "By the Throne. By the Chorus. By anyone who still listens."
Murmurs spread through the villagers.
Aerun's jaw tightened. "What were you told?"
The man hesitated, then spoke, voice shaking.
"That a man erased from record walks the land. That wherever he goes, correction follows. That villages sheltering him invite divine attention."
Lyrae exhaled sharply. "They're turning you into a storm."
Aerun looked around at the gathering crowd—faces lined with worry, fear, calculation.
"You should not be afraid of me," he said.
A woman near the back laughed bitterly. "That's what they said about the gods too."
The words struck harder than any blow.
Aerun took a step back.
"We won't stay," he said. "We won't draw attention."
The man at the well shook his head. "It's already drawn."
He gestured upward.
No clouds twisted. No light broke the sky.
But something else stood there.
A herald stone, newly raised at the village edge, its surface still raw from carving. Divine script glowed faintly across it.
Lyrae swore under her breath. "They placed an anchor."
Aerun stared at it. "For what?"
"For blame," she said.
Night fell uneasily.
Aerun sat by the riverbank, staring at the water as it bent strangely around his reflection. The village behind him whispered in low voices.
He felt it—the subtle alignment, the invisible tension like a rope pulled too tight.
"They want you to choose," Lyrae said quietly, sitting beside him.
"Between what?"
She gestured toward the village. "Stay, and risk them. Leave, and confirm the story they're spreading."
Aerun closed his eyes.
"This is Talrek," he said.
"Yes," Lyrae replied. "Influence over force. He's letting fear do the work."
A shout rose from the village.
Then another.
Aerun was on his feet instantly.
At the square, a group of villagers stood gathered near the herald stone. The man from the well stood among them, face pale but resolute.
"We can't risk it," he said loudly. "If the gods come—"
"They won't," Aerun interrupted.
The man turned sharply. "You can't promise that."
Aerun opened his mouth—
And stopped.
Because he couldn't.
Silence stretched.
A child cried somewhere.
Lyrae stepped forward. "Listen to him. He stopped a cleansing. He saved people."
"And brought judgment anyway," someone shouted.
The words spread like fire.
Aerun felt the familiar ache rise in his chest—not divine pressure, but something worse.
Responsibility.
He stepped toward the herald stone.
Lyrae grabbed his arm. "Don't."
"If I remove it—"
"They'll come," she said urgently. "Immediately."
Aerun stared at the glowing script.
This was the trap.
Not power.
Choice.
He turned back to the villagers.
"We will leave before dawn," he said. "You will not be punished for sheltering us."
The man shook his head. "And if that's a lie?"
Aerun met his gaze.
"Then it will be my burden," he said.
He walked away.
They left before sunrise.
No one stopped them.
But no one watched them go either.
The river mist swallowed the village behind them, the herald stone's faint glow lingering like an accusation.
Lyrae walked in silence for a long time before speaking.
"That was the first time," she said.
"The first what?"
"The first time restraint cost someone else," she replied. "Not you."
Aerun clenched his fists. "I didn't choose this."
"No," Lyrae agreed. "But now it follows you."
They reached a ridge overlooking the valley.
Behind them, the village lay quiet.
Ahead, the land stretched wide and unforgiving.
Aerun felt the warmth at his back stir faintly—not urging, not demanding.
Waiting.
"I won't let them use people as weapons," he said.
Lyrae looked at him carefully. "Then you'll have to decide what you're willing to become."
Aerun stared into the distance.
"If silence is the only way to stop them," he said slowly, "then I'll learn how much silence I can carry."
Far away, Talrek Vos received confirmation.
The village remained untouched.
The target had withdrawn.
Talrek smiled faintly.
"Good," he murmured. "He's learning."