Years later, no one agreed on when Kael became a story.
Some said it was the year after he left Virell, when a generation grew up without seeing his face in the forum. Others said it happened much later, when people stopped correcting each other about what he had really meant.
Stories need distance.
In one version, Kael wandered the roads forever, appearing when disputes grew dangerous and vanishing before gratitude could settle into obedience.
In another, he married, argued about crops, and died in a village no map bothered to record.
Both versions missed the point.
What endured was not the man, but the gap he left behind.
Cities no longer searched for singular leaders. When someone tried to rise too high, others instinctively asked: Who does this replace? When systems promised certainty, people asked what they were expected to stop questioning.
The question itself became inheritance.
Michael aged badly and proudly, still arguing with anyone who confused structure for truth. Seris was remembered as a troublemaker by every council she improved. Aurelian's students outlived her, carrying disagreement like a sacred practice.
The Custodians continued to observe, but this world was eventually reclassified—not as a failure, not as a success, but as non-convergent.
Unsolvable.
Somewhere, long after Kael's name faded into argument and rumor, a child asked an old teacher why the world had no final law.
The teacher smiled and answered honestly:
"Because once, someone proved we didn't need one."
The stars burned on.
The world continued.
And no one waited for permission to live in it.