The Abyss did not warn her.
That alone was enough to make Seris uneasy.
She stood at the threshold of the inner expanse, where the shadows thinned into long, slow currents instead of violent tides. This region had always reacted to her presence—whispering, coiling, responding. Now it merely flowed, as if pretending indifference.
Pretending was new.
Mason noticed immediately.
"It's quiet," he said.
"Yes."
"Not resting," he added. "Listening."
Seris nodded. She felt it too—an attention that did not come from above, like the gods, nor from below, like the Abyss. This awareness moved sideways through reality, skimming the edges rather than pressing against the center.
"Observers," she murmured.
Mason's jaw tightened. "Then they're late."
She glanced at him. "Late for what?"
"For pretending they don't exist."
The words settled heavily between them.
They moved deeper into the Abyss, their footsteps echoing faintly despite the lack of solid ground. The realm shaped itself into long causeways and suspended platforms, not at Seris's command but in quiet accommodation—as if anticipating where she would go before she chose the path.
That unsettled her more than resistance ever had.
"You're thinking too loudly," Mason said softly.
She huffed a breath. "I don't like that it doesn't need me to tell it what to do anymore."
He considered that. "You don't like that it's learned you."
"Yes."
The shadows ahead rippled.
Not surged.
Not recoiled.
They parted.
Something stood beyond them.
At first glance, it looked human—tall, slender, draped in muted gray that seemed to absorb attention rather than attract it. Its face was unremarkable, almost forgettable, until Seris realized that was intentional.
Her mind slid over its features without catching.
"That's deliberate," she whispered.
The figure inclined its head slightly. "Yes."
Mason stepped forward immediately, placing himself half a step ahead of Seris. His shadows stirred, ready.
"You don't belong here," he said.
The figure did not react. "Neither did you. Once."
Seris frowned. "Who are you?"
The figure turned its gaze to her.
The moment their eyes met, Seris felt something shift—not power, not pressure, but perspective. As if the figure were not looking at her from a point in space, but from a point in probability.
"We are the Continuum," it said. "Not gods. Not mortals. Not immortal."
Mason scoffed. "You're late to object."
"Yes," the Continuum agreed calmly. "Because objection was never our function."
Seris's fingers curled. "Then why are you here?"
The figure regarded her in silence for a long moment.
"To confirm," it said at last. "That the anomaly has stabilized."
Mason bristled. "She's not an anomaly."
The Continuum did not look at him. "She was."
Seris raised a hand slightly, a silent request for Mason not to escalate—yet. He obeyed, though tension coiled visibly in his posture.
"You're not here to fight," Seris said.
"No."
"Or threaten."
"No."
"Then what?"
The figure stepped closer.
The Abyss did not react.
That was the most alarming part.
"You represent a fixed point," the Continuum said. "A rare occurrence. A will that resists drift. A presence that cannot be averaged, predicted, or diluted."
Seris's chest tightened. "And that's a problem."
"It is… inconvenient."
Mason laughed softly. "You came all this way to tell us that?"
"No," the Continuum said. "We came to tell you this."
It lifted a hand.
The space between them shimmered, unfolding into a vision—not forced, not invasive, but undeniable.
Seris saw futures.
Not one.
Hundreds.
Worlds bending subtly around her presence. Conflicts that never escalated because something anchored them. Civilizations that stabilized—not under rule, not under law, but under continuity.
And others.
Burning.
Collapsing.
Because she was absent.
Seris staggered back, breath hitching.
Mason caught her, his grip firm, grounding her instantly. "Enough."
The Continuum lowered its hand.
"You see now," it said. "You are not merely remaining. You are necessary."
Seris's voice shook. "I never asked for that."
"No fixed point ever does."
She pressed her fingers into Mason's arm, steadying herself. "What happens if I refuse?"
The Continuum tilted its head. "Then reality compensates."
Her stomach dropped. "How?"
"It breaks," the figure said simply. "Or it replaces you with something less stable."
Mason's shadows flared.
"Over my dead body."
The Continuum finally looked at him.
"That outcome exists as well."
Silence stretched taut.
Seris felt Mason's grip tighten—not possessively, but protectively, instinctively. The bond hummed, resonating with something dangerously close to anger.
She inhaled slowly.
"I won't be used," she said.
The Continuum nodded. "Nor are you asked to be."
"Then what are you asking?"
The figure stepped back, already fading.
"Awareness," it said. "Choice. And restraint."
Its form dissolved into the shadows, leaving no ripple behind.
The Abyss remained silent.
Seris stood shaking, the weight of unchosen futures pressing against her chest.
Mason turned her toward him, cupping her face firmly. "You don't owe them anything."
"I know," she whispered.
"Say it again."
"I don't owe them anything."
He rested his forehead against hers. "Good."
She closed her eyes, breathing him in—shadow, heat, certainty.
But even as she steadied, one truth echoed relentlessly in her mind:
The gods were no longer the greatest threat.
And permanence had just revealed its price.