The third bell did not fade.
It lingered.
Not as sound, but as afterimage—a resonance that clung to the air, vibrating softly through stone, skin, and thought. Tareth felt it settle behind his eyes like an unblinking stare.
The auditors were no longer skimming.
They were reading.
Iscer moved first, quick and economical, already packing away the few tools they carried. "We can't stay," they said. "Not now. Not after that."
Tareth nodded. The ground beneath his feet felt too attentive, as though lingering here would encourage it to decide too much on his behalf. He stepped back, deliberately unsettling the balance. The stones hesitated, then relaxed, their accommodation loosening.
Good.
He didn't want obedience.
They climbed out of the ravine on the opposite side, following a path that hadn't existed until Iscer started walking. It wasn't carved or summoned—it simply became preferable for the land to open there rather than resist.
"That's happening more often," Tareth observed.
Iscer glanced back. "You're leaving impressions," they said. "Not footprints. Preferences."
That word sat poorly.
They reached a low rise overlooking the borderlands beyond the city. Out here, the land stretched wide and uncertain, dotted with half-ruined markers, old ward-stones cracked down the middle, and roads that diverged without explanation. The sky above was darker now, cloud-lines faint but persistent, sketching invisible margins.
Tareth felt exposed.
"Talk to me," he said. "About the auditors."
Iscer sighed. "They're not one thing. Not a council, not a species. They're… functions. Responses. When reality starts spending more than it earns, they appear."
"And the registrar?"
"Entry-level," Iscer said. "Collectors don't decide policy. They just make sure nothing escapes the books."
Tareth looked back toward the city. Even from here, he could feel it—structures settling, angles straightening. The city was stabilizing.
At his expense.
"If I leave," he said slowly, "the cost spreads."
"Yes."
"And if I stay—"
"It concentrates," Iscer finished. "And eventually collapses."
Tareth closed his eyes. He could almost see it now—not futures, but balances. Too much pressure here. Too much accommodation there. The world constantly shifting weight to avoid tearing.
"What happens if I don't move at all?" he asked.
Iscer froze.
"That's not an option," they said carefully.
"Why?"
"Because the auditors assume movement," Iscer replied. "Everything moves. Stars, plates, people. Something that stays where it's expensive becomes a threat by definition."
Tareth considered that.
Then he sat down.
The land reacted instantly—too quickly. Grass flattened, stones nudged aside, creating a shallow basin around him. The accommodation was eager now, overcorrecting in its attempt to make his presence tolerable.
Iscer swore softly. "Tareth—don't."
He raised a hand. "Just watch."
He stayed still.
The pressure mounted—not crushing, but insistent. He felt lines of attention converge, distant but focused. The cloud-alignments above tightened, several snapping into cleaner formation.
The auditors were testing the assumption.
Tareth breathed slowly, ignoring the instinct to shift, to comply, to reduce friction.
Minutes passed.
Then—
A crack.
Not in the ground.
In expectation.
One of the cloud-lines wavered, then bent sharply away, breaking its alignment. Another followed, jittering as if uncertain which rule to obey.
The pressure faltered.
Iscer stared at the sky. "You're… refusing movement."
"Yes," Tareth said quietly. "Just like I refused correction."
"That's not how this works," Iscer said, though their voice lacked conviction. "Everything has to—"
"Move?" Tareth finished. "Or align? Or comply?"
He opened his eyes.
The basin around him had stopped adjusting. The land seemed… tired. It had offered accommodation and received no response. No gratitude. No reinforcement.
So it stopped trying.
The pressure eased—not gone, but redistributed.
Far away, a bell rang once.
Off-cycle.
Iscer's breath caught. "That wasn't a count."
"No," Tareth said. "That was recalculation."
He stood slowly. This time, the ground did not rush to assist. It allowed him to rise on his own terms.
"I think," he continued, choosing his words carefully, "that movement isn't the only way to pay."
Iscer looked at him with something like awe—and fear. "You're making yourself inconvenient."
"Yes."
"That's dangerous."
"Everything is," Tareth replied. "I just get to decide how now."
The sword at his side ticked.
Once.
Then again.
Not agreement.
Acknowledgment.
The cloud-lines above loosened further, some fading entirely. The night sky deepened, stars blinking uncertainly as if checking whether they were still needed.
Iscer let out a shaky laugh. "You're going to give the auditors a headache."
"Good," Tareth said. "They've been giving everyone else one for centuries."
Silence followed—real silence this time, not imposed or accounted for. The borderlands breathed, wide and unstructured.
Somewhere far away, the predator continued to write its bad rules.
Somewhere closer, ledgers adjusted margins they had never needed before.
And standing on a rise of uncertain ground, Tareth Veyl did something no system was prepared to record.
He stayed.
Not to resist.
Not to rebel.
But to see what the world would do when its assumptions stopped moving on their own.
The answer was coming.
Slowly.
And for the first time, it would have to ask permission.