The fire crackled low, casting long shadows across the forest clearing. Sylen sat cross-legged, slowly sharpening her dagger with a whetstone, each scrape slicing through the silence. Daelen leaned against a fallen log, eyes locked on the flickering flames, mind whirling in quiet chaos.
That vision. The glimmer. The words.
It hadn't come back since.
He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening. What was that? Not a dream. Not an illusion. Something had… seen him. A thing deeper than sight, colder than the steel that had nearly taken his life.
The world had whispered, and he didn't know if he wanted to hear more.
"Still brooding?" Sylen asked, not looking up.
A pause. Then—"Have you ever heard stories… about something that watches people? Not gods. Not sect elders or spirits. Just… the world itself."
That got her attention.
She glanced his way, brow raised. "You mean like ghost tales? Or the Eye of Heaven stuff those temple fanatics preach?"
"No. Older. Stranger. Like… the world recording you. Judging you."
Sylen was quiet for a moment, then snorted. "You sound like my grandmother. Crazy old bat. She used to rant about some ancient thing—The Eyes of the World, she called it. Claimed it waited in the dark places. Watching for those who break their chains."
Daelen sat up straighter, heartbeat quickening. "Go on."
Sylen shrugged, her tone somewhere between mocking and nostalgic. "Said it only shows itself when you defy what's written. That if it notices you, you're… changed. Not blessed. Not cursed. Just seen. Like it holds up a mirror, and you either recognize yourself—or go mad."
A chill threaded through his spine.
"Did she ever say what it looks like?"
"Just a reflection," she said. "But wrong. Off. Like the mirror shows the version of you that should've been. She claimed a man once clawed out his own eyes after glimpsing it."
Daelen swallowed hard, gaze falling back to the fire.
He thought of that moment again—the flash of something he didn't understand. The shift in his body. The fear. The fury.
It hadn't been someone else guiding him.
It had been him. No technique, no teacher. Just instinct. Just survival.
"Sylen," he said, voice low. "What if someone wasn't meant to be important—but refused to accept that?"
She didn't answer right away. Her blade stopped moving.
Then, calmly, "Then they either die fast… or make the world flinch."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
After a long pause, she added, almost as an afterthought, "Heard whispers. From the east. A sect that trains 'Fated Ones.' Cultivators with futures carved out by starbinders. But every now and then… one breaks their fate. And when that happens, weird shit follows. Some vanish. Some go mad. Others get noticed."
Daelen closed his eyes.
So I'm not the only one...
But none of that comforted him.
Because if being seen meant stepping off the path, then he wasn't just walking into the unknown.
He was erasing the map.