The figure stepped fully into the light.
He was tall, wrapped in layered dark fabric that moved like smoke but never touched the ground. His face was calm, almost gentle, yet his eyes carried something old—older than the Trials, older than the Threads.
Salemadon felt Pahtem pulse in his hand.
Not with warning.
With recognition.
"You survived," the stranger said again, his voice steady. "That was not expected."
Brughan shifted beside Salemadon, fists clenched. "Who are you?"
The figure smiled faintly. "A witness."
Althara narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."
"No," the figure agreed. "But it is the truth."
The platform beneath them trembled. Mist curled around its edges, pulling away as if afraid.
Salemadon stepped forward.
"You're not a Trial," he said. "And you're not an echo."
The figure inclined his head slightly. "Correct."
Pahtem's glow deepened.
"Then why are you here?" Salemadon asked.
The figure's eyes locked onto his.
"To collect the cost."
THE FIRST STRIKE
The air cracked.
Without warning, the figure vanished.
Salemadon barely had time to react.
A force slammed into his side, sending him skidding across the platform. Pain flared through his ribs as he rolled, barely stopping himself from falling into the mist below.
"Salemadon!" Althara shouted.
Brughan charged forward with a roar—but hit nothing.
The figure reappeared behind him.
One open palm.
A sharp burst of pressure threw Brughan backward like a leaf in a storm. He crashed hard, groaning as he struggled to rise.
Salemadon pushed himself up, breathing hard.
"You said witness," he growled.
"Yes," the figure replied calmly. "Witness to your choice."
Pahtem flared.
White-black Threads spiraled around Salemadon's arm as he raised the weapon.
"I won't run," Salemadon said. "If you're here to test me—then do it properly."
For the first time, the figure smiled wider.
"Good."
BALANCE IN MOTION
The platform shattered outward.
Stone fragments lifted into the air, spinning slowly as gravity twisted. Salemadon leapt instinctively, landing on a floating slab just as the ground beneath him collapsed.
The figure stood calmly on nothing.
No support.
No Threads.
Just will.
Salemadon attacked.
He swung Pahtem in a wide arc, releasing a wave of controlled energy. It cut through the air like a blade, ripping apart drifting stone as it surged forward.
The figure raised one hand.
The wave stopped.
Compressed.
Then reversed.
Salemadon barely managed to redirect it, slamming it into the mist where it vanished with a thunderous echo.
His heart pounded.
He didn't overpower it, Salemadon realized.
He balanced it.
The figure appeared again, closer this time.
"You learned restraint," he said. "But restraint alone is not balance."
He struck again.
THE COST REVEALED
Salemadon blocked—but Pahtem screamed.
Not in sound.
In sensation.
Pain surged through Salemadon's arm, spreading like fire through his veins. He cried out, dropping to one knee.
The Threads flickered wildly.
"What did you do?" Salemadon gasped.
"I reminded Pahtem," the figure said softly, "that balance is shared."
The pain intensified.
Salemadon saw flashes—people, places, futures that bent and broke depending on his actions. Every choice pulled at him from a different direction.
He gritted his teeth.
"You're punishing me for choosing balance."
"No," the figure corrected. "I am showing you its weight."
The mist roared upward, forming towering walls around the platform.
"You will feel this every time you force the Threads," the figure continued. "Every time you bend the world too far."
Salemadon shook, sweat pouring down his face.
"Why?" he demanded. "Why me?"
The figure knelt before him, finally close enough for Salemadon to feel the depth of his presence.
"Because you did not choose power," he said quietly. "And the world does not forgive those who refuse domination."
THE STAND
Salemadon slowly forced himself upright.
Every movement hurt.
Pahtem trembled in his grip.
"Then I'll bear it," Salemadon said through clenched teeth. "I won't let balance become another weapon."
The figure studied him in silence.
Then—he stood.
"That answer," he said, "is why you live."
The mist retreated.
The floating stones settled.
The pain faded—but did not vanish completely. A dull ache remained, deep and permanent.
A reminder.
The figure stepped back.
"My task is complete."
"Wait," Salemadon said, breathing hard. "Your name."
The figure paused at the edge of the platform.
"I am called The Arbiter of Threads," he said. "And I will see you again—when the price comes due."
Then he vanished.
AFTERMATH
Silence fell.
Brughan staggered to Salemadon's side. "You okay?"
Salemadon nodded slowly. "I will be."
Althara knelt, studying Pahtem. "It's changed."
"Yes," Salemadon replied. "So have I."
Ahead, the path forward reshaped itself—longer, darker, more dangerous than before.
No Trials waited.
Only the world.
Salemadon tightened his grip on Pahtem.
"Let's keep moving," he said.
Because balance had chosen him.
And now the world would test that choice.
Power answers when called. Balance answers when tested.