The cell was not underground.
That was the first thing Aerun noticed.
It sat high within a stone tower, open to the sky through narrow slits that let in air and light—but never enough to see the horizon. The walls were smooth, unmarked, etched with faint geometric lines that pulsed softly whenever he moved.
A correction space.
They had learned.
Aerun sat with his back against the wall, wrists bound in suppression chains that bit cold against his skin. Every breath felt measured, as if the air itself were rationed.
The warmth at his back was gone.
Not muted.
Gone.
For the first time since exile, he felt completely ordinary.
Footsteps approached.
Aerun lifted his head.
Talrek Vos entered the chamber alone.
No armor. No sigil hovering above his brow. Just a man in dark robes, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
"You surprised them," Talrek said calmly. "That's rare."
Aerun said nothing.
Talrek studied him with open curiosity. "Do you know why they didn't execute you?"
"Because it wouldn't work," Aerun replied.
Talrek smiled faintly. "Because it would make you a symbol."
He gestured to the walls. "This place isn't meant to hold you forever. It's meant to define you."
Aerun met his gaze. "As what?"
Talrek considered the question. "A boundary."
Silence stretched.
"You could help us," Talrek continued. "Voluntarily. Advise containment. Limit damage."
"I won't help you hurt people."
Talrek nodded. "Of course you won't."
He stepped closer. "But you already did."
The words landed cleanly.
"You left the village," Talrek said softly. "They burned anyway. You surrendered. They lived."
Aerun's jaw tightened.
"That choice," Talrek said, "will repeat. Again and again. Until you understand."
Talrek turned to leave.
"One more thing," he added. "Your companion escaped custody."
Aerun's breath caught.
Talrek glanced back, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "She's clever. Dangerous, too. We'll be watching."
The door closed.
The correction lines flared once—then settled.
Aerun closed his eyes.
And waited.
Lyrae did not follow the road.
She never did.
Two days after Aerun's capture, she slipped into the ruins beneath the old trade bridge, ink-stained cloak discarded, satchel lighter now that she'd buried most of its contents.
She was no longer running.
She was working.
The network still existed. Quiet scribes. Unlicensed couriers. People who remembered before records told them what to believe.
She found the first contact at dusk.
"They took him alive," Lyrae said without preamble.
The woman across the fire nodded. "Because he scares them more breathing."
"They're redefining him," Lyrae continued. "As a hazard."
"That's how they always start."
Lyrae clenched her fists. "I need access. Old access."
The woman hesitated. "That will mark you."
"I'm already marked," Lyrae replied. "Just not officially."
That night, far above Aerun's cell, the Sky Veil shifted.
Voices gathered.
"He is contained."
"For now."
"The artifact is suppressed."
"Temporarily."
A pause.
"He chose restraint."
"Yes."
"Then use it."
Agreement rippled outward.
Plans formed—not for battle—
But for pressure.
Aerun woke screaming.
Not from pain.
From absence.
He sat upright, breath ragged, heart racing.
For a moment, he could not remember who he was—only what he was not.
The silence was gone.
So was the warmth.
He pressed his forehead to the wall, grounding himself in the cold stone.
"I won't become what you want," he whispered.
The walls did not answer.
But somewhere beyond them, Lyrae moved pieces into place.
And somewhere higher still, the gods prepared to make restraint bleed.