They did not return to Lareth immediately.
Aren made that choice before anyone asked him to explain it.
"The city needs time," he said as they broke camp. "And so do we."
No one argued. After what they had seen, the idea of walls felt smaller than it once had.
They traveled east, following subtle signs rather than roads. Roads still existed, but they felt wrong now—too deliberate, too confident. Whatever was listening seemed drawn to intention, to certainty. Aren trusted instinct more than structure.
By the second day, the land began to answer back.
Not with voices. With resistance.
The ground grew harder to cross, rising and dipping in ways that didn't match the horizon. Winds shifted without warning, circling them like unseen scouts. Once, the cartographer swore the sun had moved—just slightly, but enough to unsettle his sense of direction.
At dusk, they reached an old watchtower half-swallowed by ivy and time. No enchantments clung to it. That alone made it valuable.
They settled in cautiously.
Kael sat apart from the others, sketching symbols in the dirt—not spells, Aren noted, but patterns. Observations. Mapping change the way a scholar mapped stars.
"You're not sleeping," Aren said, approaching quietly.
Kael didn't look up. "Neither are you."
Aren crouched beside him. "What are you seeing?"
Kael traced a spiral with his finger. "Magic isn't random now. It's responsive. The Listeners aren't just correcting imbalance—they're forcing adaptation."
Aren considered that. "Like stress shaping bone."
"Yes," Kael said softly. "Or extinction shaping life."
That word lingered.
Before Aren could respond, the hunter stiffened near the tower entrance.
"Something's coming," she whispered. "Not fast. Not hiding."
Aren rose, hand on his sword. "Everyone up."
They didn't form ranks. Ranks assumed predictability. Instead, they spread out, leaving space, making themselves smaller.
From the trees emerged a figure.
Not Changed. Not monstrous.
Human.
He walked openly, hands empty, steps measured. His clothes were travel-worn, his face lined with exhaustion rather than fear. Faint traces of magic clung to him—not corruption, but residue, like smoke on cloth.
"I don't want trouble," the man said, stopping well short of their camp. "But I've been following you."
Aren didn't lower his guard. "Why?"
"Because the land stopped trying to kill you," the man replied. "That's rare now."
Kael frowned. "Who are you?"
"Edrin," the man said. "Once of the Conclave. Before it fell."
Silence tightened.
Sereth's name hung unspoken between them.
Aren gestured slightly. "Speak carefully."
Edrin nodded. "Fair."
He took a breath. "I was part of the reinforcement circle. Not leadership. Not decision-making. But I saw enough to know when it went wrong."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Then you helped cause this."
"Yes," Edrin said simply. "And I've spent every day since trying to understand what we woke."
Aren studied him. No deception. Just weight.
"What do you want?" Aren asked.
"To warn you," Edrin said. "And to ask for protection, if you'll give it."
The hunter scoffed quietly, but Aren raised a hand.
"Warn us about what?"
Edrin hesitated, then spoke with care. "The Listeners are not the only ones responding."
Aren felt a familiar chill. "Go on."
"There are others," Edrin said. "Things that fed on controlled magic—parasitic systems, constructs, entities bound to abundance. With the Anchor gone, they're starving."
Kael's eyes widened. "Which makes them desperate."
"Yes," Edrin said. "And violent."
A low vibration rolled through the ground beneath their feet, as if the land itself were acknowledging the truth.
Aren made his decision.
"You can stay the night," he said. "After that, we decide if you walk with us."
Relief flickered across Edrin's face, quickly buried.
That night, sleep came poorly.
Aren dreamed of cities built too high, of light pulled tight until it screamed. He dreamed of hands letting go.
He woke before dawn to movement.
Not attack—movement with purpose.
Figures stood at the edge of the trees, half-formed, woven from geometry and fading runes. Old constructs. Guardians that once protected trade routes and ley crossings. Now they twitched, incomplete, their power sources unstable.
"They've found us," Kael whispered, standing beside Aren.
Edrin swallowed. "They're not hunting you. They're following the magic around you."
Aren stepped forward, sword drawn but lowered.
The constructs did not charge.
One raised an arm. Runes flared weakly, then shifted—rearranging themselves, adapting.
Aren felt the Listener's pressure again. Watching. Measuring.
"This is a test," Kael murmured. "They want to see how we respond."
Aren didn't attack.
He sheathed his sword.
The guards tensed, but held.
Slowly, deliberately, Aren knelt and placed his hand on the ground.
No magic. No command.
Just presence.
The constructs hesitated. Their runes dimmed, then stabilized—not bright, not powerful, but functional.
One stepped back.
Then another.
They retreated into the trees, movements smoother than when they had arrived.
Aren stood, breath steady but heart pounding.
Kael stared at him. "You just rewrote how power works."
Aren shook his head. "No. I reminded it that we're still here."
Edrin laughed once, breathless. "The Conclave never tried that."
Aren looked toward the horizon, where the sky lightened with a cautious dawn.
"Then the Conclave never understood what the world was asking," he said.
They broke camp soon after.
The path ahead was unclear, dangerous, and unforgiving—but it existed.
Behind them, the old world continued to fall apart.
Ahead of them, something new was forming—not built on obedience, but on consequence.
And for the first time since magic turned against the world, the world had not answered with destruction—but with restraint.