The first city announced itself with stone.
Not walls—not yet—but causeways, culverts, aqueducts crossing the plains with deliberate arrogance. Geometry replaced wilderness gradually, until the land itself seemed reluctant to curve.
Aarinen felt it immediately.
The pressure.
Cities carried weight, not physical but conceptual. Rules embedded in architecture. Assumptions carved into street plans. Expectations layered so thick they formed a second atmosphere.
Kael slowed as the city came into full view.
"Helior," she said. "Trade city. Proud of its neutrality."
Aarinen smiled faintly.
"No city is neutral," he said.
Kael shrugged.
"Helior pretends better than most," she replied.
They approached openly.
No disguises. No detours. Kael had learned long ago that skirting cities made people nervous. Entering them calmly made them careless.
At the outer checkpoint, guards waved them through after a cursory inspection. Aarinen's injuries drew looks, but no questions.
Inside, Helior unfolded like a ledger.
Markets aligned in neat rows. Buildings rose to consistent heights. Even noise seemed regulated—loud enough to feel alive, quiet enough to remain efficient.
Aarinen's headache began within minutes.
Kael noticed.
"Cities compress you," she said. "They don't like unresolved variables."
"Yes," Aarinen replied. "I feel… misfiled."
They found lodging near the southern quarter, an inn designed more for caravans than comfort. Kael paid in advance, no bargaining. Another deliberate signal.
They were not desperate.
By evening, word had already begun to circulate.
Aarinen felt eyes linger on him too long. Conversations paused when he passed. Merchants smiled too carefully.
"He's known," Kael said quietly.
"Yes."
"That was fast."
"It always is," Aarinen replied. "Information likes order."
That night, as the Quiet Hour approached, the city did not fall silent.
It never did.
Helior's noise thinned but did not stop—clocks chimed, water flowed, watch calls echoed along walls. The sun sank behind rooftops, turning windows into mirrors of fire.
Pain bloomed in Aarinen's chest.
He gripped the edge of the inn's window frame, breathing shallowly.
No laughter came.
The pressure inside him tightened.
Kael watched him from across the room.
"It's building," she said.
"Yes."
"Can you control it?"
Aarinen shook his head.
"I can delay it," he said. "That's different."
A knock sounded at the door.
Kael's hand went to her blade.
Aarinen straightened, ignoring the spike of pain.
"Who is it?" Kael called.
"Civic liaison," a voice replied. "Peaceful intent."
Kael opened the door cautiously.
A man stood there, flanked by two guards who did not enter. He wore dark blue robes trimmed with silver thread, his posture precise.
"I am Archivist Dorel," he said. "On behalf of Helior's Council, I request a conversation."
Aarinen stepped forward.
"About what?" he asked.
Dorel's gaze flicked to Aarinen's bandages.
"About classification," he said.
Aarinen sighed.
"Yes."
They met in a private chamber within the inn, its walls lined with shelves that held nothing but blank ledgers—symbolic, Kael guessed.
Dorel sat opposite them, folding his hands neatly.
"Helior does not wish conflict," he began. "But it requires clarity."
"About me," Aarinen said.
"Yes."
"What are my options?" Aarinen asked.
Dorel smiled thinly.
"Registration," he said. "Observation. Limited movement."
"Containment," Kael said.
Dorel did not deny it.
"Helior believes unmanaged forces invite catastrophe," he said.
Aarinen leaned forward slightly.
"Helior believes silence equals safety," he said. "It's wrong."
Dorel's eyes hardened.
"You destabilize environments," he said. "We have reports."
"Yes."
"You survived Merrowen," Dorel continued. "That concerns us."
"Yes."
Dorel inhaled slowly.
"Then understand this," he said. "If you remain unregistered, Helior will consider you hostile by default."
Aarinen felt the pressure spike.
"Then I won't remain," he said.
Dorel frowned.
"That would be… inadvisable."
Aarinen smiled faintly.
"Everything about me is."
Dorel rose.
"You have until morning," he said. "After that, enforcement will escalate."
He left without another word.
Kael exhaled sharply.
"That was faster than I expected," she said.
Aarinen sat heavily.
"They're efficient," he said. "They've learned from Merrowen."
Outside, the city continued its measured pulse.
That night, Aarinen did not sleep.
The pressure inside him built steadily, like a tide pressing against a weakening barrier. Pain flared and faded, never quite cresting.
Just before dawn, something shifted.
Not release.
Alignment.
He stood quietly in the room, eyes closed, breathing slow.
Kael watched him, tense.
"What's happening?" she asked.
"I don't know," Aarinen said. "But it's… reorganizing."
The pressure condensed.
Pain sharpened.
And beneath it, something else stirred.
Not laughter.
Not defiance.
Understanding.
When the sun rose over Helior, Aarinen opened his eyes.
"I need to leave," he said.
Kael nodded.
"Before they stop you."
"Yes."
They moved quickly.
At the city gate, guards hesitated, hands tightening on spears.
Aarinen stepped forward.
"I'm leaving," he said calmly.
The guards looked at each other, uncertain.
Then—
A voice rang out from behind them.
"Hold."
Archivist Dorel emerged, flanked by more guards.
"You were given until morning," Dorel said.
"It is morning," Aarinen replied.
Dorel studied him.
"Then you choose to be unclassified," he said.
"Yes."
Dorel nodded.
"Then Helior chooses response," he said.
The guards raised their weapons.
The pressure inside Aarinen reached its limit.
Not breaking.
Focusing.
Pain surged.
And this time, something answered.
A sound escaped him—not laughter.
A low, resonant exhale that seemed to shift the air.
The guards staggered back as if pushed, though nothing visible moved. Stone beneath their feet cracked in fine lines, radiating outward.
The gate shuddered.
Aarinen swayed, barely standing.
Kael caught him.
"Move," she hissed.
They ran.
Behind them, Helior's alarms sounded—not in panic, but in procedure.
The city did not welcome what it could not name.
But it would remember.
And whatever Aarinen had just done, it had not been laughter.
It had been something new.