The ground beneath them was smooth and white, stretching endlessly in every direction. No sky. No sun. Just a pale glow that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Salemadon stood slowly, his body still aching from the fall. Pahtem felt heavy on his arm—quiet, restrained, as if conserving strength.
"This place…" Brughan said, turning in a slow circle. "It feels wrong. Like we're standing inside a thought."
Althara knelt and pressed her palm to the surface. "It's not land. It's a threshold. A space that exists between anchored realities."
Salemadon frowned. "Between worlds?"
"Yes," she said. "Between decisions."
That sentence settled heavily in the air.
THE SILENCE SPEAKS
There was no wind. No sound of movement. Even their breathing felt muted, swallowed by the space around them.
Salemadon took a few steps forward. Each step echoed faintly, but not behind him—inside him.
"I don't feel watched," Brughan said cautiously.
"That's because we aren't," Althara replied. "Not directly."
Salemadon stopped. "Then this is a blind spot."
Althara nodded. "A rare one. The Anchors can't stabilize this place. Too many unresolved probabilities overlap here."
Brughan exhaled. "So for once, we can breathe."
Salemadon didn't relax. His instincts refused to quiet.
"No," he said. "This isn't rest. This is… preparation."
PAHTEM RESPONDS
Without warning, Pahtem pulsed.
Not violently. Not painfully.
A steady, rhythmic glow spread along Salemadon's arm, illuminating thin lines in the white surface beneath his feet. Symbols appeared—geometric, unfamiliar, yet strangely understandable.
Althara's breath caught. "It's responding to the space."
Salemadon felt it too. His thoughts slowed. Not dulled—focused. Memories surfaced: moments where he hesitated, moments where he chose restraint over destruction.
"This place doesn't judge power," he said quietly. "It judges intent."
Brughan crossed his arms. "That's comforting… I think."
THE ECHO
A presence stirred.
Not approaching. Not emerging.
Simply existing.
The light ahead shifted, condensing into a tall, faint silhouette. Not solid. Not shadow. Its form flickered between clarity and abstraction.
Salemadon did not reach for Pahtem.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The presence did not speak with a voice. The words arrived directly, gently, but unmistakably.
"I am what remains when correction fails."
Althara stiffened. "A remnant?"
"A witness," Salemadon corrected instinctively.
The presence tilted its head slightly.
"You understand more than you should."
TRUTHS REVEALED
The presence gestured, and the white space rippled. Images formed around them—fragments of history stitched together.
Worlds frozen mid-collapse. Cities erased without sound. Beings like the Anchors standing among ruins, silent and unmoved.
"These are corrections," Brughan said softly.
"Yes," Althara whispered. "Failures made permanent."
Salemadon clenched his fists. "And Pahtem?"
The presence turned toward him.
"Pahtem exists because correction once failed… completely."
The words struck deep.
Salemadon's chest tightened. "So I'm not an accident."
"No," the presence replied. "You are a response."
THE COST
The images shifted again.
A figure—older, weary—holding Pahtem with trembling hands. A choice made in silence. A world spared, but at terrible cost.
Salemadon staggered slightly.
Althara caught his arm. "Easy."
The presence spoke again.
"Balance is not mercy. It is endurance."
Salemadon met its gaze. "Then why am I still alive?"
The answer came without hesitation.
"Because you hesitate."
A WARNING
The white space trembled.
Far away, something pressed against the boundary. Not yet breaking through—but testing.
Althara looked up sharply. "They've noticed the absence."
The presence began to fade.
"The hunt will escalate," it said. "Anchors were only the beginning."
Salemadon's jaw tightened. "Then what comes next?"
The presence's final words echoed as it dissolved into light.
"Enforcers. And eventually… architects."
Silence returned.
RESOLVE
Brughan broke it first. "I'm guessing architects are bad."
Althara didn't smile. "They don't hunt. They redesign."
Salemadon looked down at Pahtem. Its glow steadied, stronger than before—but restrained.
"I won't let them redesign us," he said.
He lifted his head, eyes sharp.
"We move smarter. We choose when to fight. And when they come again…"
He clenched his fist.
"We don't run."
ENDING BEAT
The white space began to fracture—thin lines spreading outward.
Althara nodded. "The threshold is closing."
Salemadon stepped forward, ready.
"Then let it close," he said. "We're ready for what's next."
Somewhere beyond the unseen layers of reality, the system recalculated.
Salemadon was no longer just surviving.
He was becoming a variable it could not erase.
There are places the world refuses to remember—because what survives there can return changed.