The villagers were already kneeling when Aerun arrived.
They knelt in the dust of the main road, heads bowed so low their foreheads pressed into the earth. No one spoke. No one cried. Even the children were silent, clinging to their mothers as if sound itself might summon death.
Aerun stopped at the edge of the road.
Smoke drifted lazily above the rooftops of Keth Varain, thin and grey, carrying the smell of burned grain. The fields beyond the village had been trampled flat, their harvest ruined not by war—but by preparation.
Someone had known this was coming.
Aerun adjusted the strap across his shoulder. The wrapped sword at his back shifted slightly with the movement, its weight familiar, constant. He did not reach for it. He never did.
He stepped forward.
The moment his boots touched the village road, several villagers looked up. Relief flashed across their faces—quick and desperate—before fear swallowed it again.
A Sentinel had come.
From the far end of the road, metal rang against stone.
The holy vanguard advanced in perfect formation.
Their armor was white, edged with gold, unmarred by dust or ash. Each soldier bore the same burning sigil upon their chestplate—a mark etched so deeply it glowed faintly, pulsing in time with their breath.
The air around them felt wrong.
Heavy.
Aerun felt it press against his skin, like standing too close to a storm. Loose pebbles vibrated at his feet. The hem of his cloak stirred despite the still air.
Aethrin.
He took one more step forward and raised his hand.
"Stop."
The word carried farther than it should have.
The vanguard halted instantly, boots striking the ground in unison. Their discipline was absolute. Their obedience was not to kings, but to something far higher.
One soldier stepped out of formation. His helmet bore a crest of gold feathers, his posture rigid with authority.
"By decree of the High Chorus," the soldier announced, voice clear and emotionless, "this settlement is designated for divine correction. All inhabitants are to be removed."
Removed.
Aerun looked past the soldier, at the kneeling villagers.
"On what charge?" he asked.
The soldier's eyes flicked briefly toward the wrapped blade on Aerun's back, then returned to his face.
"Noncompliance."
"With what?"
"Destiny."
Aerun exhaled slowly.
He turned to the villagers. "Stand. Gather what you can carry. Quietly."
Some hesitated. Others obeyed instantly, scrambling to their feet, fear lending speed to their movements.
The soldier stepped forward. "Sentinel, you are exceeding your authority."
Aerun faced him again.
"I am Oathbound," he said calmly. "These people fall under my protection."
A murmur rippled through the vanguard. Several soldiers shifted, hands tightening on spear hafts.
The sigils on their armor brightened.
The sky darkened.
Clouds overhead twisted unnaturally, spiraling inward toward a single point. Light bled through the cracks—not sunlight, but something colder, sharper.
The villagers cried out as pressure descended, forcing many back to their knees.
Aerun remained standing.
The clouds parted.
A Herald descended from the opening in the sky.
It had no wings, yet it hovered effortlessly, cloaked in layered radiance that hurt the eyes to look upon. Its form was humanoid, but indistinct, as though reality itself refused to define its edges.
Its voice did not come from its mouth.
It came from everywhere.
"Sentinel."
Aerun knelt.
Not in surrender—but in acknowledgment of ancient law. He pressed one knee to the ground, fist to his chest, head bowed.
"My oath stands," he said.
"This settlement is marked."
"Marked by whom?" Aerun asked quietly.
"By destiny."
Aerun lifted his head.
"Then destiny is wrong."
The pressure intensified instantly. Cracks spread across the road beneath Aerun's knee. Somewhere behind him, a child screamed.
"Stand aside," the Herald commanded."This is not your burden."
Aerun rose to his feet.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He turned his back on the Herald and faced the village, placing himself fully between the divine light and the kneeling people.
"These lives are behind me," he said. "If correction is required, it will begin here."
For the first time, the Herald hesitated.
The radiance flickered.
The soldiers stirred uneasily, the Aethrin around them flaring in unstable waves. Several glanced at Aerun—not with hatred, but with uncertainty.
Aerun raised his voice—not in anger, but in command.
"Go," he told the villagers.
They did not need to be told twice.
Families ran, clutching what little they could carry, fleeing toward the ravine beyond the fields. Aerun watched until the last of them disappeared from sight.
Then the sky screamed.
Light crashed down where Aerun had been standing moments before, obliterating stone and earth alike. The impact hurled him forward, slamming him into the dirt at the edge of the road.
Pain exploded across his back.
Aerun rolled, gasping, smoke filling his lungs. He pushed himself up on trembling arms and looked back.
Keth Varain was gone.
Not burning.
Gone.
Where homes and roads had stood was now a glassed crater, edges glowing faintly with residual heat. The air rang with a high, painful whine.
The Herald hovered above the devastation, its radiance steady once more.
"You have delayed destiny," it said."You have not denied it."
The divine presence withdrew, ascending into the closing sky. The clouds sealed as if nothing had occurred.
The soldiers marched away without another word.
Aerun remained where he was, kneeling in ash and shattered stone.
Time passed. He did not know how long.
When he finally stood, his legs shook beneath him. He reached back instinctively, steadying himself by gripping the wrapped hilt of his sword.
The cloth was warm.
Not hot.
Warm, like something alive beneath the bindings.
Aerun frowned but said nothing. He rewrapped the cloth tightly and turned toward the ravine.
Night fell by the time he reached the survivors.
They stared at him as if unsure he was real. Some wept openly. Others knelt again, pressing their foreheads to the ground.
"Don't," Aerun said softly. "Please."
A young girl looked up at him, eyes wide.
"Are the gods angry with you?" she asked.
Aerun considered the question.
"No," he said at last. "They are angry that someone said no."
He remained with them until sleep took them one by one. When the camp grew quiet, Aerun stood alone at the ravine's edge, staring up at the stars.
"If destiny can be delayed," he murmured, "then it can be broken."
The wind stirred.
For a heartbeat, the world felt… quiet.
Far beyond sight, beyond prayer, beyond record, something long forgotten listened.
And remembered.