Dawn came like an accusation.
August hadn't slept. None of them had. He sat against the courtyard wall, watching Forsaken mill around in scattered groups, their movements carrying the specific nervousness of people who'd seen their protector kill someone with reflected belief.
Arthur sat twenty feet away, propped against a pillar. Not resting. Just… held up by stone because standing required energy he didn't have. Blood had dried on his face in patterns that looked like philosophy given form. His prosthetic was slag now, the melted remains barely attached to his shoulder. Every few minutes he'd cough, and more blood would join the collection on the ground.
"He needs medical attention," someone whispered.
"You volunteering to get close enough to give it?" another replied.
Lyka was the only one who seemed capable of normal movement. She'd spent the night checking equipment, monitoring frequencies, doing the work that needed doing while everyone else processed what they'd witnessed. Now she stood between Arthur and the crowd like a translator for grief.
"The collection companies hit three settlements," she announced. "Forty-seven casualties before they withdrew. The automated systems are still active but…" She glanced at Arthur. "Without Crownless to coordinate them, they're just following base programming. Crude. Beatable."
Arthur tried to speak, coughed blood instead. Tried again.
"The communities," he managed. His voice sounded like resonance had scraped it raw. "They need to leave. Separately. Different directions."
"They're terrified to move," Lyka said quietly. "Half think you'll protect them if they stay. The other half think you'll kill them if they try to leave."
"Can't protect anyone." More blood. "Tell them… tell them to go."
Lyka turned to the crowd. "You heard him. Start organizing departure groups. Share what information you have about safe routes. The network is still singing Crownless's collection song, but it's weaker now. You can resist it if you're prepared."
The Forsaken didn't move. They just stared at Arthur, bleeding against his pillar, looking nothing like the legendary protector they'd believed in.
"Now!" Lyka snapped, and that got them moving. Slowly. Carefully. Like people afraid of triggering another display of impossible violence.
August watched them scatter and realized he should probably be doing something. Helping. Organizing. Instead, he just sat there, trying to understand how his ten-page story had led to this: Arthur Solvain, barely conscious, having just killed his brother with inverted erosion.
"You're staring," Lyka said, appearing beside him.
"He's dying."
"He's not dying. He's just…" She paused, searching for words. "Carrying more weight than physics should allow. It'll pass. Always does."
"Does it?"
Lyka didn't answer.
The morning progressed in stutters. Groups of Forsaken would approach the exits, lose nerve, circle back. Others made it out, moving in desperate sprints like they expected Arthur to stop them. He didn't. He just sat there, occasionally coughing, watching them leave with eyes that couldn't quite focus.
Finally, when the sun was properly up and half the crowd had managed to escape, August found the courage to approach him.
"Arthur?"
Those unfocused eyes found him. For a moment, August saw what three hundred reflected beliefs looked like when they were trying to exist in one body. It was… painful. Like watching someone hold too many contradictory truths at once.
"You're still here," Arthur observed. Not a question. Just acknowledgment.
"I… yes. I wanted to explain. About what I said before. About creating you."
Arthur blinked slowly, like remembering required effort. "Right. The writer. Ten pages. Everyone dying."
"You don't believe me."
"I believe…" Arthur paused, swallowed blood. "I believe you believe it. That's what matters for your mental health."
August felt frustration rising. Even barely conscious, even bleeding out from killing his own brother, Arthur was still treating him like someone having a psychological episode.
"The zones were exactly like I wrote them," August insisted. "The settlements, the way Foundations work, your reputation system…"
"August." Arthur's voice was gentle despite the blood. "Listen to yourself. You're claiming you created reality with ten pages of fiction. That's… that's not how reality works."
"Then how do you explain the coincidences?"
"Stress. Pattern recognition. Confirmation bias. The human mind finding connections where…" Another cough. "Where none exist. It's common after trauma."
"This isn't trauma response! This is…"
"This is you trying to make sense of something overwhelming," Arthur interrupted, and for a moment he sounded almost lucid. Almost kind. "I get it. The zones don't make sense. What you've seen doesn't fit normal physics. Your mind needs an explanation, so it created one where you have control. Where you're the author."
August stared at him. At this man who'd just killed someone with reflected philosophy, who was bleeding from channeling three hundred beliefs, telling him that claiming authorship was the unrealistic part.
"You need help," Arthur continued. "Professional help. Someone who understands dissociative episodes, trauma processing, reality integration issues."
"I'm not dissociating!"
"You think you wrote me into existence." Arthur's eyes were patient despite the pain. "You think your fiction became real. That's… that's textbook dissociation from reality."
Lyka approached, carrying salvaged medical supplies. "How's the philosophy discussion going?"
"He thinks I need therapy," August said bitterly.
"You do," Arthur and Lyka said simultaneously.
Arthur let Lyka tend to the worst of his visible injuries while he continued. "When this is over… when you're somewhere safe… find someone to talk to. Someone trained in trauma integration. This feeling that you created everything, that you're responsible for what happened… it'll eat you alive if you don't process it properly."
"But what if it's true?"
Arthur studied him with those painful, patient eyes. "Then you created a version of me that cares more about your wellbeing than validating your delusions. Take the hint."
The rejection was gentle but absolute. Arthur wasn't just dismissing his claims (he was protecting him from them). Pushing him away from whatever Arthur was about to become in pursuit of the rest of Crownless's network.
"Where will you go?" August asked, accepting defeat.
"East," Arthur said. "There are reports of communities going silent. Not destroyed. Just… quiet. Crownless mentioned associates." He tried to gesture with his ruined prosthetic, failed. "This isn't over."
"You can barely stand."
"I can stand enough."
"Arthur," Lyka said carefully, "maybe we should rest first. Let you heal. The silent communities will still be silent in a week."
"No." Arthur's voice carried certainty despite the blood. "Every day we wait, more communities vanish. More people lose the chance to choose. I've wasted enough time being careful."
He looked at August again. "Which is why you can't come with us."
August felt the words like a physical blow. "I could help. I could…"
"You could die," Arthur interrupted. "Or worse, you could watch me do what needs doing and spend the rest of your life trying to reconcile it with whatever story you think you're living in."
"So that's it? You're just… leaving me behind?"
"I'm keeping you safe." Arthur managed to stand, using the pillar for support. His body swayed but held. "There are other ways to help. Information networks. Research. Coordination. Safe ways that don't require you to…"
He gestured vaguely at himself. At the blood, the melted prosthetic, the weight of having killed someone who'd once been family.
"Don't require me to become you," August finished quietly.
"Nobody should become me," Arthur said. "That's not…" He paused, searching for words through the exhaustion. "That's not a goal. That's a cautionary tale."
The remaining Forsaken were finally organizing into proper departure groups. Without Crownless's perfect coordination, they were reverting to old patterns (small units, suspicious of each other, focused on individual survival rather than collective action). Arthur watched them with something like regret.
"I should have done more," he said, mostly to himself. "Should have built better systems. Stronger networks. Something that didn't require…"
"Require you to kill your brother?" Lyka suggested.
Arthur flinched. First genuine emotion August had seen from him all morning.
"He wasn't my brother anymore," Arthur said quietly. "Hadn't been for years. He was just…" A pause. "Just someone who remembered when we were."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the morning air should allow.
"We need to move," Lyka said eventually. "If we're going east, we should go before you lose the ability to walk entirely."
Arthur nodded, then looked at August one more time. "The communication device Lyka gave you. Use it. Find people doing coordination work. Analysis. Support. Be useful without being…"
"Without being broken?"
Arthur's smile was tired and honest. "Without breaking yourself trying to carry weight that was never yours to begin with."
He started walking toward the complex exit. Not steadily (every step looked like negotiation with gravity), but with purpose. Lyka fell into step beside him, ready to catch him when negotiation failed.
"Arthur," August called out.
Arthur paused but didn't turn around.
"What if I can't stop believing I created you?"
Arthur did turn then, just enough to look back. "Then create a version of me that found peace. That put down the weight. That chose something other than this." He gestured at himself again. "If you're going to live in a story, at least write a better ending."
They left.
August stood in the courtyard, watching them disappear into morning haze. Around him, the last Forsaken stragglers made their escapes, scattering to whatever futures they could build without protection.
The communication device in his pocket felt heavier than metal should. A connection to safe work, necessary work, work that wouldn't require him to watch anyone else die for philosophical principles.
Not the story he'd imagined. Not the role he'd written for himself. But perhaps (and this thought came with surprising relief) that was the point.
Real life didn't follow narrative structure. Real people didn't fit into character arcs. Real trauma didn't resolve with meaning.
It just was. Messy and painful and incomplete.
August started walking. Not following Arthur, not running away. Just… walking. Toward whatever came next when you stopped trying to be the author of someone else's pain.
Behind him, the complex stood empty except for bloodstains and the echo of beliefs that had broken against each other.
Ahead, Arthur and Lyka moved through increasing exhaustion toward communities that had fallen silent.
And somewhere between, August began the long work of learning to be nobody special in a world that didn't need another hero.
It needed people who could do the quiet work of keeping other people alive.
Maybe that could be enough.
Maybe it had to be.