The world feels wrong again.
The stillness that followed their training had begun to twist slowly, like fabric being pulled from beneath their feet.
Ethan stood, eyes narrowing as the horizon shivered. The once-fading fog was gathering again, crawling along the cracked ground like something alive. The faint hum that had followed them since dawn deepened, almost mechanical like the world was humming through its own circuitry.
Dogger didn't move. He stood in silence, watching the shifting air with the calm of someone who'd seen it before.
"The dream's rewriting itself," he murmured. "He's coming."
Ethan swallowed hard. "The Warden?"
Dogger nodded. "He's fixing the damage we caused."
The air pulsed, and for a second, everything froze. The wind, the faint ripples in the light, even Ethan's breath. Then it all inhaled again, a single wave of distortion washing through the field.
In the distance, towers began to rise. Glass-like monoliths stretched from the ground, shimmering as if pulled from another layer of the dream. Their reflections bent inward, forming impossible angles. The landscape was rebuilding itself, perfect, symmetrical, lifeless.
"Why does it look so… clean?" Ethan whispered.
Dogger's voice was quiet. "That's what he does. The Warden restores order. Erases chaos. Erases you."
Ethan's jaw tightened. He could feel the air thicken, static building under his skin. "So this isn't healing. It's… correction."
Dogger smirked faintly. "Now you're thinking like him."
A faint sound broke through the silence, a low hum, deep and distant. It didn't echo like a voice. It vibrated through the ground, the kind of sound that made your bones feel hollow.
Then came the whisper.
"All errors must be erased."
Ethan froze. The words came from everywhere—the sky, the fog, even the trembling light beneath his feet.
He turned slowly. The fog was parting.
From within it, something stirred.
A silhouette—tall, shifting, cloaked in rippling static. The air around it bled distortion, like reality itself bent to make space for its presence. The Warden wasn't fully formed yet; parts of his figure flickered, like a projection fighting to stabilize.
Dogger stepped forward, his tone even. "He's not whole. Not yet. He's rebuilding himself."
Ethan's breath came shallow. "So what do we do?"
"Wait," Dogger said. "And watch."
The ground beneath them rippled again. Fragments of broken scenery began to orbit the forming figure, stone, glass, even shards of forgotten memories flickering through the mist like reflections in water.
The Warden's voice broke again, fragmented, distorted: "Error… error… unauthorized constructs detected…"
The static around them grew violent. Ethan could feel it on his skin, a crawling heat. He looked at Dogger, who remained perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back.
"He's scanning us," Dogger whispered. "Trying to remember what we are."
Ethan frowned. "He doesn't remember?"
"Pieces of him do. The rest…" Dogger's eyes narrowed. "The rest is learning."
The Warden's flickering head turned—slowly—toward them.
Even half-formed, its gaze felt crushing, like gravity itself shifted to stare back.
Ethan's pulse quickened. His storm answered faintly beneath his skin, flickering blue in his veins.
Dogger noticed. "Don't. Not yet. He's not attacking."
"Feels like he's about to."
Dogger's expression stayed calm. "You'll know when he is."
The sky began to bleed with static light, streaks of lightning cutting across like cracks in glass. Every flash revealed more of the Warden's body—an armor of mirrored light and shadows that bled into the air like smoke.
"Dogger," Ethan said quietly. "He's finishing."
Dogger didn't reply. His eyes followed the flickering figure, assessing, patient.
When the light dimmed again, the Warden's form had almost solidified. Only his face remained a blur—shifting constantly between dozens of different outlines, none of them human.
Then, in one flickering instant, he stopped moving. The fog fell still. The world went quiet.
Ethan whispered, "Is he… gone?"
Dogger shook his head slowly. "No. He's waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For the command to erase us."
The world went silent except for the faint hum of the W
arden's pulse—steady, methodical, and far too human for something not alive.
Fade out.