The city gathered because it was told to.
No alarms rang.No panic spread.
Just summons—gentle, authoritative, unquestionable.
By midday, the Great Plaza was full.
Citizens stood shoulder to shoulder beneath banners of white and gold, their faces turned toward the high dais where the Chorus spoke only when history required it.
Aerun felt the moment before he heard it.
The correction lines along his cell walls tightened—not to restrain him, but to prepare him.
Footsteps came.
The door opened.
Talrek Vos stood there once more, but now he wore ceremonial white. His sigil burned steadily above his brow.
"It's time," Talrek said.
Aerun rose.
His chains fell away without a sound.
Not because he was free—
Because restraint was no longer the method.
Lyrae drifted in stillness.
Or perhaps the world drifted around her.
She could see the Plaza—not directly, but through layered impressions, as if reality itself were remembering it too loudly.
People gathered.Words preparing to be spoken.A lie aligning itself.
"You're going to let this happen," she whispered.
The quiet presence beside her stirred.
"It is permitted."
"By whom?" Lyrae asked.
The presence did not answer.
But it leaned closer.
Aerun stood on the dais.
The crowd murmured when they saw him—some with fear, some with confusion, some with relief.
He looked… ordinary.
No glow.No threat.No visible miracle.
Talrek stepped forward, voice amplified by divine resonance.
"Citizens of the Dominion," he declared, "we address you today to restore stability."
A ripple of assent passed through the crowd.
"Recent disturbances," Talrek continued, "were caused by a former Sentinel acting outside his oath. Through restraint and wisdom, the threat has been contained."
Talrek turned slightly toward Aerun.
"The man before you has agreed to acknowledge divine authority and renounce his interference."
The lie settled easily into place.
The Chorus waited.
Aerun felt the warmth at his back coil—not urging violence, not demanding release—
Waiting for choice.
Talrek leaned closer, voice low enough only Aerun could hear.
"One sentence," he said. "And she returns to sequence."
Aerun closed his eyes.
He saw the village square.The herald stone.Lyrae writing with bleeding hands.
He opened his eyes.
"No," he said.
The word carried.
Not loud.
Clear.
The Plaza fell silent.
Talrek froze.
Aerun stepped forward to the edge of the dais.
"My name is Aerun Kaelthar," he said, voice steady. "I was erased for doing what you taught me to do."
Murmurs spread—confusion, disbelief.
"I will not bless a lie," Aerun continued. "And I will not speak so you can sleep."
Talrek hissed, "Stop."
Aerun did not look at him.
"You fear me," Aerun said to the crowd. "Because you were told to. Because fear is easier than truth."
The banners fluttered wildly.
The air bent.
Not from power—
From misalignment.
Lyrae felt the words reach her.
Not as sound.
As anchor.
Something shifted in her suspended space.
Sequence trembled.
"He is deviating," a voice murmured somewhere above.
"He is choosing," another answered.
Lyrae smiled.
"Good," she whispered.
Talrek raised his hand sharply.
The Chorus acted.
Pressure slammed down on the Plaza—not crushing, but overwhelming. People cried out, falling to their knees as divine alignment reasserted itself violently.
Aerun staggered—but did not fall.
He reached back.
Not for the blade.
For the cloth.
He gripped it.
And held.
The silence bloomed.
Not wide.
Not violent.
Just enough.
The pressure faltered.
People gasped as the weight lifted, confusion replacing pain.
Aerun released the cloth.
Sound rushed back.
Talrek stared at him in horror.
"You don't even need it anymore," Talrek whispered.
Aerun met his gaze.
"No," he said. "I need restraint."
The Chorus recoiled.
Not physically.
Conceptually.
The lie collapsed.
That night, the city did not riot.
It whispered.
People went home unsure what they had seen—but certain of what they hadn't.
History did not settle.
It shook.
In hidden places, scribes paused mid-sentence.
Records hesitated.
Below the world, something ancient adjusted its count again.
Lyrae felt herself shift.
Not free.
But closer.
And for the first time since the story began, the gods did not ask:
"How do we stop him?"
They asked:
"What happens if we can't?"