They did not walk far before the land changed.
The ground grew dry and cracked, as if life itself had withdrawn. The sky above darkened—not with clouds, but with something heavier, thicker, pressing down on the horizon.
Salemadon slowed.
"It's close," he said.
Brughan wiped sweat from his brow. "You say that like it's polite enough to wait."
Althara crouched, touching the soil. Her fingers trembled slightly.
"This place is losing probability," she said. "Something is collapsing paths ahead of us."
Pahtem pulsed.
Once.
Then again.
Not warning.
Recognition.
THE ARRIVAL
The air split.
Not torn—parted.
A vertical line appeared in the distance, glowing faintly, widening slowly like an opening wound in the sky.
Salemadon's breath caught.
"That's not a gate," he whispered.
"No," Althara replied. "It's a correction."
The line widened.
From it stepped figures clad in pale armor that reflected no light. Their forms were tall, precise, identical. No faces—only smooth masks marked with thin black lines.
They moved as one.
The land beneath their feet hardened into flawless stone.
Brughan growled. "I don't like anything that walks like it owns the ground."
"They don't own it," Salemadon said quietly.
"They erase it."
NO NEGOTIATION
One figure stepped forward.
Its voice was calm, layered, distant.
"Deviation confirmed."
"Balance-bearer located."
Salemadon raised Pahtem—but did not activate it.
"We're passing through," he said. "We're not attacking anything."
The figure tilted its head slightly.
"Intent irrelevant."
"Existence unresolved."
The others spread out silently.
Althara whispered, "They're not enemies."
Brughan frowned. "That's worse."
THE FIRST CLASH
The figures moved.
No warning.
No signal.
The world snapped into motion.
Salemadon reacted instantly, pulling Threads just enough to redirect the first strike—a beam of compressed force that cut the ground where he had stood moments before.
The earth exploded.
Brughan charged with a roar, slamming into one of the figures—
—and passed through it.
The figure reformed instantly.
Brughan stumbled back. "That's cheating."
Althara struck with precision, targeting joints, weak points—but every hit corrected itself, armor smoothing back into perfect shape.
"They adapt," she shouted. "We can't damage them the normal way!"
Salemadon gritted his teeth.
Balance, he reminded himself.
Not force.
FIGHTING THE UNFIGHTABLE
Salemadon stopped attacking.
Instead, he observed.
The figures moved not to kill—but to limit. Each strike narrowed space, closed paths, reduced options.
They weren't fighting bodies.
They were fighting possibility.
Salemadon raised Pahtem slowly.
"Stay close," he said. "They're herding us."
Brughan shot him a look. "Toward what?"
Salemadon glanced at the cracked horizon.
"Erasure."
THE COST RETURNS
Salemadon acted.
He bent Threads—not outward, but inward—compressing probability around the figures, forcing their movements to overlap.
Pain exploded in his arm.
He cried out, dropping to one knee.
The figures faltered—just slightly.
Enough.
Althara moved instantly, dragging Salemadon back as Brughan covered them, swinging wildly to disrupt formations.
Salemadon gasped, vision blurring.
The ache from the Arbiter's lesson burned deep.
"You feel it now," one figure said calmly.
"Balance destabilizes the bearer."
Salemadon forced himself upright.
"Then stop pushing," he growled.
THE BREAKING SKY
The vertical line in the sky widened.
More figures stepped through.
Five.
Then ten.
Brughan stared. "We're not winning this."
Salemadon looked at Pahtem.
Then at the land.
Then at the sky.
"No," he said. "But we can interrupt it."
He focused—not on the enemies, but on the connection between them and the opening.
The Thread was faint.
Carefully regulated.
He touched it.
Pain ripped through him like fire.
He screamed—but held on.
The sky screamed back.
The opening shuddered violently.
The figures froze.
Then—
The line collapsed.
The remaining figures vanished mid-step, snapping out of existence as if they had never been.
Silence slammed down.
AFTERMATH
Salemadon fell forward.
Brughan caught him.
"Don't you dare," Brughan muttered.
Althara knelt, eyes wide. "You collapsed a correction event."
Salemadon laughed weakly. "That sounds bad."
"It is," she replied. "Very."
The land around them began to crack—slowly, dangerously.
They moved.
Not because they wanted to.
Because staying meant being erased.
ENDING BEAT
Far away, something far greater shifted its attention.
Not annoyed.
Not angry.
Interested.
Salemadon felt it.
And for the first time, he understood—
The world was no longer testing him.
It was responding.
The world did not ignore the signal. It answered.