The world did not cheer.
It never did, after the important things.
Instead, it staggered.
Where Axiom had enforced certainty, ambiguity flooded in like cold water. Crops failed where futures had once been guaranteed. Kings hesitated. Courts argued for weeks without verdicts. People learned again that choosing meant being wrong sometimes.
They blamed Erynd.
Quietly.
Then loudly.
Posters appeared.
Not with his face.
With a question:
IF NO PATH IS RIGHT — WHY FOLLOW ANY?
Cities split along answers.
Some built rigid laws to replace the lost certainty. Others rejected structure entirely, burning courts and ledgers alike.
Freedom, it turned out, was unstable.
Erynd walked through the chaos unseen.
Not hiding.
Choosing not to matter.
Caelis ruled for a year.
Not as king.
As a temporary weight.
Every law he passed had an end date.
Every order required public justification.
It was exhausting.
It worked—barely.
The Devourer stirred once more.
Not whispering temptation.
Asking.
What am I now?
Erynd sat alone on a cliff, rain soaking his black hair.
"You are the cost people forget to count," he said.
And you?
"I'm the one who remembers."
The Archivist (once the Watcher) began recording failures.
Not to prevent them.
To preserve accountability.
History became sharp again.
One night, Erynd found a child carving symbols into stone.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Making rules," the child said.
"So people don't hurt each other?"
The child shrugged. "So when they do, we know why."
Erynd smiled.
Far away, something new formed.
Not a god.
Not a rule.
A movement.
People who believed that meaning required chosen limits.
They did not ask Erynd to lead.
They asked him to leave.
So they could fail on their own.
He did.
Walking into the unknown, scars fading, weight light but present.
Behind him, the world wobbled.
Ahead of him—
Nothing guaranteed.
Erynd breathed deeply.
And took a step.