By nightfall, they reached the edge of the forest.
Not an open clearing—
but a place where the trees simply stopped, as if they refused to grow any farther.
Beyond it stretched a wide plain of dark soil and fractured stone. The ground was scarred with shallow craters, old and weathered. This land had known conflict long before either of them set foot on it.
Kaelion slowed. "We camp here."
Eris nodded, though unease prickled at the back of his neck. "This place feels… watched."
"Everything does now," Kaelion replied. "The difference is whether it can act."
They built a small fire, carefully contained. Kaelion warded the perimeter with symbols etched lightly into the soil—nothing flashy, just enough to blur attention.
Eris sat across from him, staring into the flames.
After a long silence, he spoke. "The Clan said to choose people over prophecy."
Kaelion looked up. "Yes."
"What if people choose wrong?"
Kaelion considered that. "They will. Often."
Eris frowned. "Then why is it better?"
"Because mistakes belong to the one who makes them," Kaelion said. "Prophecy steals that ownership. It turns tragedy into inevitability."
Eris poked at the fire with a stick. "The Watchers don't make mistakes, do they?"
Kaelion's mouth tightened. "No. They make edits."
The wind shifted suddenly, blowing sparks upward. The shadows around the campfire stretched unnaturally long.
Eris stiffened. "Do you feel that?"
Kaelion was already on his feet.
The darkness beyond the fire moved.
Not forward—
inward.
The shadows peeled away from the ground, rising like smoke given shape. They didn't form bodies, not fully—just suggestions of limbs, eyes, mouths that never quite closed.
Eris's heart hammered. "What are those?"
Kaelion drew his blade, its edge humming softly. "Consequences."
The shadows circled the camp, whispering—not in words, but in pressure, in regret. Each one carried an impression: a choice made, a path abandoned.
Eris felt it tug at him.
What if you had stayed?
What if you had obeyed?
What if you had never gone down those stairs?
He clenched his fists. "They're trying to weigh me down."
"Yes," Kaelion said. "They're called Remnants. Leftovers from erased paths."
One drifted closer, reaching—
Eris stepped forward.
"No," he said firmly.
The Remnant hesitated.
Eris didn't attack. He didn't push it away.
He simply stood.
The Watcher's Trace stirred, uncertain.
The Remnant recoiled, unraveling into harmless mist.
The others followed, dissolving one by one.
Kaelion lowered his sword slowly.
"You didn't fight them," he said.
Eris swallowed. "They weren't enemies. They were… possibilities that didn't happen."
Kaelion nodded. "Exactly."
The night settled again, calmer this time.
Eris sat back down by the fire, exhausted.
"So this is what walking my own path means," he said quietly. "Facing everything that didn't happen."
Kaelion sat opposite him.
"And everything that still might."
The fire burned low.
Above them, unseen eyes adjusted their focus.
Not with certainty.
But with concern.
Happy new year guys