Kael woke to the sound of breathing that was not his own.
For a heartbeat, instinct surged and his hand went to the knife at his belt. Pain flared through his shoulder as his muscles tensed too fast, too hard. He hissed quietly and forced himself still.
The breathing was shallow. Uneven.
Close.
Kael opened his eyes.
Gray light filtered through low clouds, turning the ravine into a bowl of dull stone and scrub. The dry creek bed beside him was empty, its cracked surface pale and brittle. Across from him, half hidden behind a cluster of rocks, someone lay curled on their side.
Alive.
Barely.
Kael pushed himself up slowly, keeping his movements deliberate. Every part of him hurt. His ribs felt bruised deep beneath the skin. His head throbbed with a dull pressure that pulsed in time with the presence inside him.
That presence felt quiet.
Not dormant.
Watchful.
Kael approached the figure cautiously.
It was one of Haven's people.
Young. No more than sixteen or seventeen. A boy, though his frame was thin enough that hunger had likely stolen years from him. His clothes were torn and dusty. One ankle was swollen badly, the skin stretched and angry.
He must have followed, Kael realized.
Not with the watchers. Alone.
Why.
The boy's eyes fluttered open as Kael drew closer. Panic flared instantly.
"Don't," the boy croaked, scrambling backward until his injured leg betrayed him and he cried out.
Kael raised his hands. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The boy stared at him, breathing fast, fear naked and raw. "You broke it," he said. "The pillar. Everything feels wrong now."
Kael crouched a few paces away. "Why did you follow me."
The boy swallowed. "Because they said you were dangerous."
"And you wanted to see for yourself."
The boy hesitated, then nodded.
Kael studied him.
This was the cost.
Not guards. Not inquisitors. Not sanctioned retaliation.
This.
People shaken loose from certainty, left drifting without the structure they had relied on.
Kael exhaled slowly.
"What's your name," he asked.
"Eran," the boy said quietly.
Kael glanced at the swollen ankle. "You can't walk like that."
Eran's jaw tightened. "I tried."
Kael reached into his pack and pulled out water and a strip of cloth. He moved slowly, giving the boy time to react.
"I'm going to bind it," Kael said. "If you don't want that, say so."
Eran hesitated, then nodded.
As Kael worked, he felt it again. The faint lines of belief that still clung to the boy. Frayed now. Loose ends trailing where certainty had once anchored them.
"You shouldn't have touched it," Eran said suddenly. "The pillar kept us safe."
Kael tightened the binding. "Did it."
"Yes," Eran said fiercely. "No raids. No famine. No fighting."
"And no leaving," Kael replied.
Eran looked away. "Why would anyone want to."
Kael finished the binding and leaned back on his heels.
"That's the problem," he said.
Eran frowned. "You think you helped."
"No," Kael said honestly. "I think I caused damage."
Eran stared at him. "Then why did you do it."
Kael did not answer right away.
Because it scared me was not enough.
Because it felt wrong was not enough.
"Because nothing that fragile should be allowed to pretend it's eternal," Kael said finally.
Eran said nothing.
The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile.
Far off, horns sounded.
Kael stiffened.
Not the bells of Blackspire.
These were lower. Rougher. Frontier calls meant to carry over distance.
Eran heard them too. His eyes widened. "They're coming."
"Who."
"Others," Eran said. "People who watch Haven. Who trade with it. Who benefit from it."
Kael's jaw tightened.
Of course.
Belief was never isolated. It fed networks. Dependencies. Quiet agreements.
The horns sounded again, closer this time.
Kael stood.
"You can't stay here," he said. "They'll find you."
Eran looked up at him. "Are you leaving me."
Kael hesitated.
He had never been responsible for anyone like this. Not truly. Ryn and the others had been allies of circumstance. This was different.
"I can't take you with me," Kael said slowly. "Not like this."
Eran's shoulders slumped.
"But," Kael continued, "I won't leave you helpless."
He reached inward.
The presence stirred.
Kael did not push it outward. He shaped it.
A careful thing. A controlled release.
He placed his hand on the ground and let a thin thread of authority seep into the stone, not to dominate, but to mark.
A signal.
Not power.
A warning.
"This ravine will repel them," Kael said. "Not forever. Long enough."
Eran stared at him. "You can do that."
"For now," Kael said.
He pulled a small bone charm from his pocket. Boros's gift.
Kael pressed it into Eran's hand. "If they come too close, break this."
Eran's fingers closed around it. "What will it do."
"It will make them notice me instead," Kael said.
Eran swallowed. "You're lying."
Kael met his gaze. "I'm not."
The horns sounded again, very close now.
Kael stepped back.
"Go east," he said. "Away from Haven. There are smaller settlements that haven't bound themselves to one thing."
Eran hesitated. "Will you come back."
Kael did not answer.
He turned and ran.
He did not slow until the land flattened into wide scrub plains broken by low stone outcroppings. The horns faded behind him, replaced by shouts and confusion as the signal he left drew attention outward.
The presence inside him pulsed, not pleased.
Strained.
Kael staggered and dropped to one knee, coughing hard.
Every act now cost more.
He could feel it clearly. The more complex the authority he interacted with, the more careful he had to be. He could not simply devour everything and move on.
Not yet.
He pushed himself up and kept going.
By nightfall, Kael reached a stretch of land scarred by old battlefields. Rusted weapons half buried in the dirt. Bleached bones scattered where scavengers had missed them.
The air felt thick here.
Heavy with memory.
Kael slowed, senses prickling.
This place had seen war.
Not a single conflict, but many, layered over time. Armies had passed through here, fought, died, and been forgotten. Their authority had bled into the land and never fully left.
Kael felt the presence react sharply.
This was dangerous.
Authority without an owner.
Unclaimed weight.
Kael moved carefully, following the line of an old trench.
Voices drifted through the night.
Low. Measured.
Kael dropped into a crouch and crept closer.
A camp lay ahead, different from the bandits or Haven. Tents were arranged with military precision. Fires burned low. Weapons were cleaned and stacked neatly.
Soldiers.
Mercenaries.
But something else too.
At the center of the camp stood a banner.
Black cloth. No sigil. No crest.
Just a single phrase stitched in white thread.
WE REMEMBER.
The presence recoiled.
Kael's heart sank.
These were not frontier scavengers.
These were people built on aftermath.
A man stood near the banner, speaking quietly to those around him. His posture was straight, his movements controlled. He carried himself like someone used to command, but without the arrogance of rank.
Authority clung to him.
Not borrowed.
Earned.
Kael felt it clearly.
This was not fear.
Not belief.
This was loyalty forged through shared loss.
The man turned suddenly, eyes locking onto Kael's position.
"Come out," he said calmly. "You're not hiding as well as you think."
Kael stepped into the firelight.
The camp tensed instantly. Hands went to weapons, but no one attacked.
The man studied Kael closely.
"You're injured," he said. "And carrying something that doesn't belong to you."
Kael met his gaze. "So are you."
The man smiled faintly. "Yes."
He gestured to the banner. "We bury what the world discards. Kings. Cities. Causes."
Kael felt the weight here settle onto him, not pressing, but acknowledging.
"What do you want," Kael asked.
The man considered. "Answers."
Kael exhaled slowly.
So this was the next consequence.
Not pursuit.
Not faith.
Memory.
And memory, Kael knew, was harder to outrun than belief.