Rumors spread faster than reality could break.
That had always been true.
By midday, half of Velkaris Prime had heard some version of the story.
The details changed depending on who told it.
The conclusion remained the same.
Someone was responsible.
People preferred that answer.
They always had.
A single culprit was easier than accepting a world that no longer understood itself.
Inside a crowded market, two merchants argued over prices.
Three stalls away, another conversation was taking place.
"I heard he was inside the tower."
"Who?"
"The anomaly."
"That's not a person."
"It is now."
Neither speaker knew Eryndor.
Neither had ever seen him.
That did not stop the rumor.
Across the city, dozens of versions were already forming.
Some said he was a Concept User.
Others claimed he was a failed regressor.
One particularly creative drunk insisted Eryndor was secretly three people sharing one body.
The drunk gained surprising support.
Meanwhile, Eryndor regretted leaving the inn.
"People are staring."
Nysera walked beside him.
"They stared yesterday too."
"Not like this."
She glanced around.
He was right.
People weren't merely looking.
They were recognizing.
Not personally.
Conceptually.
Someone had started connecting stories.
And stories were dangerous.
Especially in a city built on interpretation.
They turned into a quieter street.
The noise of the marketplace faded.
Only distant footsteps remained.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Nysera stopped.
Eryndor immediately noticed.
Because the shadows around her feet had become still.
That was unusual.
The shadows normally moved slightly.
Not enough for ordinary people to notice.
Enough for Eryndor.
Someone stood ahead.
A man.
Middle-aged.
Simple clothing.
Nothing remarkable.
Which made him suspicious immediately.
Normal people were becoming increasingly rare in his life.
The man bowed politely.
"Lord Eryndor."
Eryndor winced.
"Please don't call me that."
"Very well."
The man nodded.
"Eryndor."
Somehow that felt worse.
The stranger smiled.
"I represent an interested party."
"That's unfortunate."
"It usually is."
Nysera remained silent.
Watching.
The man's eyes briefly shifted toward her.
A tiny pause followed.
Recognition.
Interesting.
Then he looked away.
As though deciding he preferred remaining alive.
Smart.
The man reached into his coat.
Eryndor immediately tensed.
The stranger froze.
"...I am removing a letter."
"That sounded exactly like something dangerous people say."
The man considered this.
"...Fair."
He slowly produced an envelope.
Old paper.
Black wax seal.
No markings.
"An invitation."
Eryndor stared at it.
"To what?"
The man's smile faded slightly.
"A conversation."
That answer immediately made Eryndor trust him less.
Nobody ever invited people to mysterious conversations for healthy reasons.
Nysera finally spoke.
"Don't go."
The man looked toward her.
"And if he refuses?"
For the first time—
the shadows around Nysera moved.
Not much.
Enough.
The temperature dropped slightly.
The stranger's expression remained calm.
But not comfortable.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Then he looked back toward Eryndor.
"The city is changing."
His voice had become serious.
"The Scholars are investigating."
"The Church is preparing."
"The Imperium is nervous."
A pause.
"And there are others beginning to wake."
That caught Eryndor's attention.
"What others?"
The man smiled.
"The wrong question."
Then he turned and began walking away.
After three steps he stopped.
Without looking back, he spoke one final sentence.
"The city wants a culprit."
Silence followed.
Then:
"It may eventually settle for the wrong one."
And with that—
he disappeared into the crowd.
Eryndor stared after him.
The envelope remained in his hand.
Heavy.
Not physically.
Meaningfully.
Beside him, Nysera's expression had become difficult to read.
"You know who sent him."
It wasn't a question.
She remained silent for several seconds.
Then:
"...Maybe."
Eryndor sighed.
One day he was going to meet a person capable of answering questions normally.
Unfortunately, today was not that day.
Far beneath Velkaris Prime—
the underground clock shifted again.
A fourth hand moved.
Not toward the future.
Not toward the past.
Toward something approaching.