The shadows did not retreat.
They reorganized.
Salemadon felt it before he saw it—the air tightening, the land shifting beneath his feet, probability bending in ways that no longer felt random. Pahtem throbbed once against his arm, a warning more than a response.
"They're not done," he said quietly.
Brughan looked around, breathing hard. "I figured that much."
The cracks in the ground widened. Not violently, but deliberately, like lines being drawn by an unseen hand. From them came a low vibration, deep and steady, as if something massive was moving beneath the surface.
Althara's face went pale. "This isn't correction anymore."
Salemadon turned to her. "Then what is it?"
She swallowed. "It's a hunt."
THE LAND TURNS HOSTILE
The ruins around them shifted. Broken stone slid into new shapes. Pathways closed. Open ground folded inward. The world was no longer a battlefield—it was a cage being constructed in real time.
A sharp sound cut through the air.
Boom.
Something struck the ground behind them, cracking stone and sending debris flying. Salemadon spun just in time to see a figure rise from the dust.
Not a shadow.
Not fully human.
It stood tall, wrapped in dark layered armor that reflected no light. Its face was smooth and pale, carved like stone, with no eyes—only thin lines where eyes should have been.
Brughan took a step back. "Please tell me there's only one of those."
The ground answered instead.
Three more figures emerged, forming a wide circle around them.
Althara whispered, "They're Anchors."
Salemadon's jaw tightened. He had felt them before—faintly, distantly. "They lock probability," he said. "If they surround us…"
"…movement becomes impossible," Althara finished.
NO ESCAPE — ONLY MOMENTUM
The Anchors raised their arms.
The world slowed.
Not time—possibility.
Salemadon felt it immediately. His muscles resisted his own movements, like pushing through thick water. Pahtem flared sharply, struggling against the pressure.
Brughan tried to run.
He moved one step.
Then stopped.
"Yeah," he said grimly. "That's bad."
Salemadon closed his eyes for a brief second, forcing his breathing to steady. Panic would kill them faster than any enemy.
"They want us contained," he said. "So we do the opposite."
Althara looked at him. "Which is?"
"We move forward. Together. Fast."
THE BREAKOUT
Salemadon surged forward, pouring controlled force into Pahtem—not explosive, not reckless. Threads of probability snapped outward, slamming into the Anchor directly ahead of them.
The Anchor staggered.
That alone shocked Salemadon.
"They didn't expect resistance," he realized.
"Then don't let them adapt!" Brughan shouted.
Brughan charged, swinging his weapon at the weakened Anchor. The blow didn't destroy it—but it shifted it just enough.
Enough was all Salemadon needed.
He pulled hard.
Reality bent.
The space between them and the Anchor folded, launching Salemadon and Brughan through the gap as the ground behind them collapsed inward.
Althara followed instantly, weaving through the distortion with precision.
They landed hard—rolling, gasping, alive.
Behind them, the Anchors turned.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
THE CHASE
"Run," Salemadon said.
They ran.
The land reshaped itself as they moved—ridges rising, stone breaking, pathways forming and collapsing behind them. The Anchors advanced without urgency, never rushing, never stopping.
"They don't need speed," Althara said while running. "They restrict the world until escape becomes impossible."
Brughan glanced back. "I really hate enemies who are patient."
Salemadon pushed Pahtem again, weaving probability into their path—forcing small chances to stack in their favor. Loose stones shifted under the Anchors' feet. Cracks widened just enough to slow them.
But the effort burned.
His vision blurred.
His chest tightened.
Pahtem pulsed unevenly.
Althara noticed immediately. "You can't keep forcing it like this."
"I don't have a choice," Salemadon said through clenched teeth.
"Yes, you do," she replied. "You just don't like it."
THE DECISION
They reached a cliff edge—nothing beyond it but swirling mist and fractured space.
Brughan skidded to a stop. "Tell me that's not the end."
"It's not," Althara said. "It's a transition point."
Salemadon stared into the void below. Pahtem vibrated violently, reacting to something unseen.
"This isn't stable," he said.
"No," Althara agreed. "But it's unanchored."
The Anchors stopped behind them, forming a line. One stepped forward.
Its voice echoed without sound.
"Containment nearly achieved."
Salemadon took a breath.
Then another.
Then he stepped forward—off the edge.
FREEFALL
Brughan didn't hesitate. He jumped.
Althara followed.
The world dropped away.
Space twisted. Light fractured. Gravity failed.
Salemadon felt Pahtem surge wildly, reacting to the unanchored reality. Threads snapped and rewove at impossible speed.
Pain tore through his arm.
But then—
They fell through.
AFTERMATH
They crashed onto solid ground, skidding across smooth white stone. The air was thin, cold, and eerily quiet.
Salemadon groaned, rolling onto his back.
Brughan laughed breathlessly. "We lived. I don't know how, but I'll take it."
Althara slowly stood, scanning the horizon.
"This place…" she murmured. "It's outside their control."
Salemadon pushed himself up, heart pounding.
Behind them, the fracture sealed shut.
The Anchors were gone.
For now.
Salemadon looked at Pahtem. It was dimmer than before—strained, but intact.
"They hunted us," he said quietly. "And they'll try again."
Althara met his gaze. "Yes. But now they know something."
Brughan raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"
Salemadon's eyes hardened.
"That we don't disappear easily."
ENDING BEAT
Far away, unseen and unmoving, the system adjusted its calculations.
The hunt had begun.
And Salemadon was no longer prey.
When the world fails to erase you, it sends hunters instead.