Rain came to Caereth without warning.
Not the slow, polite kind that announced itself with clouds and wind, but a sudden downpour that struck stone and wood like an accusation.
The streets darkened in moments, dust turning to slick mud, gutters filling too quickly.
People cursed and scattered, ducking beneath awnings and doorways.
Aerin did not hurry.
He walked through the rain as if it barely touched him, coat darkening, hair plastering to his forehead. Water ran down his face, cold and sharp, but his attention was elsewhere.
The city felt… tighter.
Not hostile. Not yet. But aware.
Every step echoed with a faint resistance, as though the world itself were paying closer attention to where he placed his feet.
He passed a row of shuttered shops, their signs creaking softly, and felt the pressure build again—the familiar crowding of outcomes, restrained but restless.
He forced himself to breathe.
Control was not the right word.
He wasn't controlling anything. He was simply… refusing to look away.
That refusal had consequences.
He turned down a side street to escape the worst of the rain, boots splashing through shallow water. The street narrowed quickly, hemmed in by tall stone buildings whose upper floors nearly touched overhead.
Rainwater poured down in thin streams from broken gutters, creating a constant hiss.
Halfway down, he sensed it.
Not a presence.
A structure.
Aerin slowed, then stopped entirely.
The pressure sharpened, coiling tight behind his eyes. Something here was wrong—not in the obvious way of decay or neglect, but in the precise, uncomfortable way of things being too aligned.
He looked up.
At first, there was nothing. Just stone, windows, iron grates. Then his gaze caught on a symbol carved high into the wall opposite him, half-obscured by grime and age.
A circle.
Not perfect. Not broken. Interrupted by a thin vertical line.
Aerin's pulse quickened.
He did not recognize the symbol.
But his perception did.
The world around it felt… reinforced.
He stepped closer.
The moment his foot crossed an invisible boundary, the rain seemed to dull, the sound muting as if wrapped in cloth. The air grew heavier, pressing against his chest.
Aerin froze.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped back.
The pressure eased. The rain's hiss returned to normal.
He stared at the symbol, heart beating faster now.
Someone had done something here.
Not recently. Not clumsily.
This was deliberate reinforcement. A place where causality had been strengthened, not weakened.
A patch.
A repair.
Aerin swallowed.
He was not the first anomaly.
The thought settled coldly in his mind.
A voice spoke behind him.
"You shouldn't stand there too long."
Aerin turned.
The woman stood beneath an overhang a few paces away, sheltered from the rain.
She was tall, her posture straight despite the cramped street, dark hair braided tightly down her back.
Her clothes were practical, layered for travel, marked with wear but well-maintained.
Her eyes were sharp. Not curious like Corin's had been.
Assessing.
"Why?" Aerin asked.
She studied him openly, gaze flicking briefly to the symbol before returning to his face.
"Because places like that attract attention."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
Her lips twitched. "Then perhaps you should listen."
Aerin considered her. She made no move toward him, no attempt to block his path or close distance. Her hands were visible, relaxed at her sides.
"What are you?" he asked.
The woman arched a brow. "That's a rude question."
"Answer it anyway."
She was silent for a moment, rain drumming steadily around them.
"Someone whose job it is to notice storms before they break," she said finally.
Aerin's gaze sharpened. "Then you already know I'm not the storm."
Her expression softened—just slightly. "No. You're the pressure drop."
They stood facing each other, the narrow street holding their words like a secret.
"My name is Ilyra," she continued. "I work with a group that studies… irregularities."
"Studies," Aerin repeated.
"Or controls?"
"Measures," Ilyra corrected. "There's a difference."
Aerin glanced again at the symbol. "That doesn't look like measuring."
"That looks like preventing collapse," she said calmly. "Sometimes the difference is academic."
A beat of silence passed.
"You followed me," Aerin said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you don't know what you are," Ilyra replied.
"And that makes you dangerous."
Rainwater ran off the edge of the roof in a steady stream, splashing near her boots.
Aerin felt the pressure swell again, his awareness brushing against multiple paths—violence, escape, conversation, silence.
He chose conversation.
"I'm not interested in breaking the world," he said.
Ilyra met his eyes.
"No one ever is."
"That's not an answer."
"It's a warning."
She stepped out from under the overhang, rain soaking her shoulders instantly, and walked closer. Aerin did not retreat.
Up close, he could see the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the kind earned over years of vigilance.
She smelled faintly of ink and metal.
"You feel it, don't you?" she asked quietly. "The hesitation. The places where things don't quite settle."
"Yes."
"And you've realized that noticing changes them."
"Yes."
Her jaw tightened. "Then you need to stop."
Aerin almost laughed. "You think I can just… stop seeing?"
"No," Ilyra said.
"But you can stop leaning."
The word struck him harder than he expected.
"I'm not doing anything," he said.
"That's the problem," she replied.
"You're leaving questions open.
The world doesn't like unanswered questions."
"Then maybe the world should learn to live with them."
For the first time, something like genuine concern flickered across her face.
"That's what scares me," she said.
A sudden shout echoed from the far end of the street.
Footsteps splashed through water, hurried and uneven. Aerin turned instinctively.
A man burst into view, running hard, clutching a satchel to his chest.
He skidded slightly on the wet stones, nearly falling before regaining his balance.
Behind him, two figures followed—uniformed, their coats marked with the sigil of the city watch.
"Stop!" one of them shouted.
The runner glanced back, panic etched across his face.
Aerin felt it immediately.
The satchel was too heavy.
The runner's footing was poor. The rain, the angle of the stones, the exhaustion—
He should fall.
The outcome crowded close, almost inevitable.
Aerin tensed.
Ilyra's voice cut low and urgent. "Don't."
The runner's foot slipped.
Time stretched—not slowing, not freezing, but thinning. Aerin felt the moment balance on a knife's edge, multiple outcomes pressing against one another.
He did nothing.
The man stumbled, windmilling, then caught himself against the wall, leaving a smear of blood where his knuckles scraped stone.
He lurched forward again, gaining speed.
The watch cursed and followed.
The moment passed.
Aerin's breath came shallow. His hands shook slightly.
Ilyra watched him closely. "You felt it," she said.
"Yes."
"And you resisted."
Barely.
"That's good," she said softly. "That's very good."
Aerin turned to face her fully. "What was in the satchel?"
"Documents," Ilyra replied. "Maps. Old ones."
"Why were they running?"
"Because some maps lie," she said.
"And some tell truths that are inconvenient."
Aerin's gaze flicked back toward the direction the runner had gone.
"Are they going to die?"
"Probably not," Ilyra said. "Not today."
"That's not comforting."
"No," she agreed. "It's accurate."
The rain began to ease, the downpour softening into a steady drizzle.
The city's noise crept back in, cautious but persistent.
Ilyra took a step back.
"You should leave this area," she said. "