Night did not fall.
It was imposed.
The light across the border city flattened, colors draining into a uniform dusk that felt less like evening and more like a decision reached without consultation. Lanterns lit themselves a breath too early. Shadows snapped into place with unnatural precision.
The audit had begun.
Tareth felt it settle fully now—not pressure, not weight, but context. The world wasn't pushing against him. It was placing him inside a column, aligning surrounding variables to see what broke first.
The stranger—still standing a careful distance away—exhaled slowly. "That's confirmation," they said. "First pass always feels polite."
"What happens on the second?" Tareth asked.
"They stop pretending you're local."
A ripple passed through the rubble circle. Stones shifted again, locking into firmer positions, as if bracing. The watchtower ruins had never been stable before; now they felt deliberate.
Tareth flexed his fingers. The ache in his body sharpened, joints protesting as alignment tried—and failed—to assert itself. His existence pulled at the seams of everything nearby.
"So what now?" he asked.
The stranger glanced toward the city proper, where streets had grown unnaturally straight, angles cleaning themselves as though ashamed of earlier irregularity. "Now you move," they said. "Before the auditors decide movement is cheaper than tolerance."
"Move where?"
They smiled thinly. "Somewhere with fewer witnesses."
The bell rang again.
Closer this time.
Tareth felt it vibrate through his bones rather than his ears. The sound carried implication—count incremented.
He didn't argue.
They moved quickly, skirting the outer edge of the city where reality was thinner and cheaper. Buildings here leaned into each other for support, roofs overlapping at odd angles, foundations borrowed from ruins older than any recorded settlement.
As they walked, Tareth noticed the pattern.
The further they went from the city's center, the less the world resisted him—and the more it adapted. Paths smoothed beneath his steps. Loose stones rolled out of his way. Once, a low wall crumbled just enough to open a gap where none had existed.
Not correction.
Accommodation.
"That's new," the stranger muttered, watching the wall settle behind them. "You didn't do that before."
"I didn't do anything," Tareth replied.
"Exactly," they said. "Which means something else decided you were easier to work around than against."
That thought tightened his chest.
They reached a narrow ravine where the land dipped sharply, cutting a scar through the outskirts. A dry streambed lay at the bottom, stones worn smooth by water that no longer came.
The stranger slid down the incline with practiced ease. Tareth followed, less gracefully, boots scraping loose gravel. The moment his foot touched the ravine floor, the air changed.
Thicker.
Quieter.
The audit pressure dulled, as if the world here had fewer rules worth enforcing.
"Blind spot," the stranger said, noticing his relief. "Auditors hate inefficiency. Places like this don't justify the math."
"Who are you?" Tareth asked again.
They hesitated this time. "Name's Iscer," they said finally. "I used to help House Myrr bind contracts that kept demons honest."
"Used to."
"Yes." Iscer's mouth twisted. "Turns out some contracts aren't meant to be honored forever. I learned that late."
They knelt and pressed a palm against the ground. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the stones shifted.
Not violently—cooperatively—forming a shallow depression, just large enough to sit within. The movement stopped once it reached a shape that felt… acceptable.
Tareth stared. "You can do that?"
Iscer snorted. "No. I can ask. The difference matters."
Tareth lowered himself opposite them. The ground adjusted slightly beneath him again, smoothing edges, redistributing weight.
The sword at his side ticked.
Once.
"Listen carefully," Iscer said, voice dropping. "The auditors aren't enemies. They're not allies either. They're accountants of reality. They don't care about good or evil—only sustainability."
"And I'm unsustainable," Tareth said.
"For now," Iscer corrected. "You spike variance wherever you go. That draws attention. But—" they glanced at the accommodating ground "—you're starting to generate patterns."
That word echoed uncomfortably.
"What kind of patterns?"
"The kind that can be modeled," Iscer said. "Which means you can be priced."
The bell rang again.
Farther away this time.
Second increment.
Tareth's jaw tightened. "What happens when they finish counting?"
Iscer looked up at the darkening sky. Lines had begun to appear faintly among the clouds—not symbols, but alignments, as if someone were sketching invisible graphs overhead.
"Best case?" they said. "They decide you're cheaper alive than erased. Worst case—"
"They settle the debt," Tareth finished.
Iscer nodded.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the distant sound of stone shifting as the city subtly rearranged itself.
"I don't want anyone paying for me," Tareth said quietly.
Iscer laughed softly. "That ship sailed the moment you kept breathing."
Tareth closed his eyes.
In the darkness behind his lids, he felt it again—not qi, not correction, but expectation. The world waiting to see which way he would lean.
"What if I choose where the cost goes?" he asked.
Iscer's expression sharpened. "That's dangerous thinking."
"So is letting the world decide for me."
The ground beneath Tareth warmed slightly.
Not heat.
Readiness.
Iscer's breath caught. "You feel that?"
"Yes," Tareth said.
The accommodation around him deepened, stones shifting closer, forming a rough seat that fit his body without forcing it. The ache in his joints eased—not gone, but managed.
The audit pressure flickered.
Above them, one of the cloud-lines hesitated, bending subtly away from alignment.
Iscer stared openly now. "You're not just being counted," they said. "You're… negotiating."
Tareth opened his eyes.
"I don't know how," he admitted.
Iscer's smile returned—sharp, intrigued, dangerous. "Good," they said. "That means you won't do it cleanly."
The bell rang a third time.
Closer again.
The audit was adjusting.
Tareth rose slowly, the ground parting just enough to let him stand. The sword at his side ticked.
Twice.
Not warning.
Agreement.
Somewhere beyond the ravine, reality recalculated its approach.
For the first time since Ironreach, Tareth felt something like direction—not imposed, not corrected, but chosen under pressure.
The cost was coming.
But it might not land where the world expected.