Darius and Ais did not move.

  The alley was empty now. The Inquisitor was gone.

  But the weight of its presence still lingered.

  Like an imprint burned into reality itself.

  Darius clenched his fists. His body still felt wrong. Like he had been on the edge of falling into nothing and was only barely pulled back. Ais was pale. She pressed her hand to her chest, inhaling slow, sharp breaths. She was trying to ground herself. Trying to convince herself that she was still here.

  Darius knew the feeling.

  His voice was hoarse. "Ais. Look at me." She lifted her gaze, eyes still dazed. But they were there. Still sharp. Still aware. He exhaled. "We're alive." Ais swallowed hard. "No." She shook her head. "Not alive. We are just... not erased." The words sent a slow, cold shudder down Darius' spine.

  She was right.

  They had not won.

  They had simply been left unfinished.

  And that was somehow worse.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Ais pressed her fingers against her temples. Her voice was steady, but tight.

  "This doesn't happen," she muttered again. "The Inquisitors of Unbeing do not fail."

  Darius looked at his hands. They had started to blur at the edges when the erasure began.

  But now, he was whole.

  "Then why did they stop?" he asked. Ais exhaled sharply. "I don't know." She turned toward the empty alley where the entity had stood. Her lips pressed into a thin line. And then, she said something that sent ice into Darius' bones. "They hesitated." Darius frowned. "The Thanatarchy does not hesitate." Ais's jaw clenched. "Exactly."

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  They needed to leave the town.

  Now.

  The Inquisition might have paused, but that did not mean it would not return.

  Ais led the way, moving quickly, taking routes that avoided the main streets. The town was still unaware of them. The people were still part of the rewritten world, blissfully ignorant of the errors that had slipped through. But as they passed an old well in the town square, Darius slowed. A presence pressed against the edge of his mind. Not a voice. Not a thought.

  A feeling.

  Something else was watching them. Darius turned sharply. His breath caught. A child stood in the square, watching them with wide, gssy eyes. At first, nothing seemed strange. But then—Darius noticed it.

  The boy's shadow was missing.

  Darius grabbed Ais's wrist, forcing her to stop. She turned, brows furrowing—then froze when she saw what he saw. The child's gaze did not waver. His eyes were too wide. Too still. Darius' heart pounded. "Ais," he murmured. "Don't." Her voice was barely a whisper. But it was too te.

  The child spoke. "Why are you still here?" Darius' pulse smmed through his veins.

  The child's voice wasn't a voice. It was a memory pced in his head. Exactly like the Inquisitors.

  Ais took a step back. "We need to—"

  The child tilted his head.

  And suddenly—he was in front of them.

  Not walking. Not running. Just there.

  And this time, when he spoke, the words burned. "You are not written."

  Darius' breath caught. Ais grabbed his arm. "Move."

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  They ran.

  Through the darkened streets. Through a town that was no longer real.

  Darius' lungs burned. His legs pushed forward.

  Behind them, the air shuddered. The child was following. Not running. Not moving. Just appearing behind every turn. Every corner. Every path they took. And then, as they reached the outskirts of the town—Ais yanked Darius sideways into an abandoned house. They pressed against the wall, breathing raggedly.

  Silence.

  Darius gripped his sword. Ais's fingers tightened around her dagger. The silence stretched.

  Then— A voice.

  Not outside. Inside the house. Right behind them.

  "You should not be."