The registrar did not follow Tareth.
That was worse than pursuit.
He simply stepped aside, letting the street resume its uncertain flow, and watched as if confident the city itself would shepherd Tareth where he needed to go. The slate in his hand dimmed, impressions sinking beneath the surface like debts deferred rather than erased.
"Tonight," the registrar said calmly, already turning away. "We'll see how much you cost."
Then he vanished—not in a flash, not in distortion. One moment he was there, the next the space simply remembered being empty.
The street exhaled.
Too hard.
People moved again, but with forced casualness. A woman laughed a fraction too late at a joke she hadn't fully heard. A man adjusted his cloak three times, dissatisfied each time. The dog from earlier lay flat against the ground, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
Tareth stood still until the city stopped adjusting around him.
Only then did he move.
He walked without destination, instinct guiding him away from density, away from proximity. The further he went, the less the city reacted—but the more he felt it. A low pressure settled behind his eyes, like the ache of holding a thought too long without resolving it.
So this was the price.
Not pain.
Attention.
By midday, he reached the city's outer edge where buildings thinned into half-finished structures and forgotten foundations. Here, reality felt cheaper—less reinforced. The ground cracked more readily. The wind lost its certainty, changing direction mid-gust as if reconsidering its route.
He found a collapsed watchtower and sat among the rubble.
The sword rested against his knee.
Still silent.
He closed his eyes and tried—just once—to reach inward. Not for qi. He knew that door was sealed. But for habit. For the memory of correction.
Nothing answered.
The emptiness was complete.
And yet—
Something shifted.
Not inside him.
Around him.
The stones beneath his feet settled into a configuration that felt… accommodating. Not aligned. Not corrected.
But willing.
Tareth opened his eyes slowly.
The rubble had arranged itself into a crude circle around him, gaps closing, edges turning inward. No force drove it. No magic flared. It was as if the stones had simply decided that this was where they should be.
He swallowed.
This was new.
Before, the world hesitated around him.
Now it was beginning to adapt.
A sound carried from beyond the ruins—soft, deliberate footsteps. Tareth rose immediately, hand drifting toward the sword out of instinct more than intent.
A figure approached along the broken path.
Not the registrar.
This one walked unevenly, favoring one leg. Their cloak was travel-worn, patched with mismatched cloth. A hood obscured their face, but Tareth felt the difference instantly.
This presence was noisy.
Not audibly—conceptually. Their outline wavered, never quite settling, as if multiple interpretations competed for dominance.
They stopped a few paces away.
"Relax," the figure said. Their voice held grit and amusement. "If I were here to collect, you'd already be arguing with your past."
"Who are you?" Tareth asked.
The hood tilted. "Someone who noticed you before the accountants did."
That was not reassuring.
They pulled the hood back, revealing a sharp-featured face marked by burn scars along one cheek. One eye was clouded white; the other gleamed with alert intelligence.
"A survivor," they continued. "Former Myrr adjunct. Current… liability."
Tareth's posture tightened. "You're marked."
"Yes," the stranger said cheerfully. "That's why I'm alive."
They stepped closer, then stopped abruptly, grimacing as the air around Tareth thickened.
"Still expensive," they muttered. "Good. Means you're consistent."
"Why are you here?" Tareth asked.
The stranger shrugged. "Because when registrars show up, things get ugly fast. And because I've seen this before."
That caught his attention. "You have?"
"Not you," they said. "Something like you. Years ago. Different place. Different mistake."
"What happened?"
The stranger's smile faded. "They tried to settle the debt all at once."
Tareth felt a chill crawl up his spine. "And?"
"There's still a crater," they said simply. "And no one remembers why it exists."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind's indecision.
"You shouldn't stay here tonight," the stranger added. "The registrar wasn't bluffing. When night falls, the city tallies."
"And if I leave?"
They snorted. "Then the road tallies. Pick your poison."
Tareth looked back toward the city. He could almost feel it—structures leaning inward, rules tightening as sunset approached. The ledger preparing to close its page.
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
The stranger met his gaze steadily. "To see if you can be taught."
"Taught what?"
"How to choose where the cost lands."
That felt heavier than any blade.
Before Tareth could respond, the air shifted.
Not violently.
Decisively.
Far above, clouds aligned into clean, unnatural lines. The wind stilled. The rubble circle around Tareth tightened another fraction.
Somewhere in the city, a bell rang that no one remembered installing.
The stranger swore under their breath. "That's early."
"What is?" Tareth asked.
"The audit," they replied. "First pass."
A pressure swept across the borderlands like a hand smoothing parchment. Not destructive—evaluative. Tareth felt it brush against him, pause, then linger.
He could sense numbers forming without seeing them. Totals without values. Conclusions without arguments.
The sword ticked.
Twice.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The stranger backed away carefully. "Well," they said grimly, "now we know."
"Know what?" Tareth asked.
"That you're not just a problem," they replied. "You're an entry."
The pressure deepened, settling like a seal pressed into warm wax.
Far away, unseen eyes adjusted their focus.
The world was no longer asking if Tareth Veyl would be accounted for.
It was deciding how soon.