The private library smelled of aged parchment, cedar polish, and the faint spice of old ink. Golden light filtered through tall windows, catching on the motes of dust drifting lazily in the air.
King Alight rose from his high-backed chair as Linalee ushered the trio inside, his expression warm yet marked with the quiet gravity of a man who carried the weight of a realm.
"Your Majesty," Rewald greeted with a bow, the others following suit.
Alight gestured for them to sit around a low table stacked with maps and sealed missives. "Linalee tells me you bring news that cannot wait."
Rewald leaned forward, his voice steady but urgent as he recounted the Hollow Valley—the twisted shapes of once-natural beasts now swollen and warped by rift corruption, the stench of magic gone wrong, and the unmistakable presence of rift cultists working in the shadows.
Kane's name surfaced in the tale, his role explained without embellishment, though Alight's gaze lingered on him longer than on anyone else.
Kane met the King's eyes without flinching.
Internally, however, he wrestled with a flicker of disbelief. In another life, another thread of time, this man had been his student—wide-eyed, stubborn, and raw with potential.
He had taught him the weight of a crown, the measure of a man, the discipline to stand for something greater. To see him now, seated in quiet authority, was like stepping into a half-forgotten dream.
Alight caught the shadow of thought on Kane's face. "You seem to be studying me," he remarked, his tone light but searching. "Curious about something?"
Kane's mouth curved faintly. "I'll tell you when we know each other better."
The King chuckled, leaning back. "Now you've made me more curious than before."
Kane tilted his head, a glint of humor surfacing. "Only that you seem to be a fine king."
From the other side of the table, Linalee gave him a sharp, skeptical look. "If I weren't so seasoned at reading the subtleties in people's words, I might have thought that was a confession of love at first sight."
Rewald roared with laughter, slapping his knee, while Arasha pressed her lips together to hide her smile.
Kane and Alight exchanged an awkward chuckle, though the faint color rising in the King's cheeks did not escape anyone's notice.
Linalee rolled her eyes, though a corner of her mouth quirked upward. "Well, if nothing else, this meeting will not lack… entertainment."
The warm hum of laughter faded like a candle snuffed by a sudden draft. King Alight's gaze sharpened, the easy warmth in his expression retreating behind the steel of a ruler who carried a kingdom's weight on his shoulders.
"Then," he began, voice low but steady, "let us set aside jest. We must speak plainly about what lies ahead—about the rifts, and every measure we can take before they bleed chaos across our borders."
The air seemed to tighten around them as Arasha leaned forward, her hands folding neatly atop the table.
Kane's posture straightened in silent support.
Together, they began to recount the preparations they had made in the other timeline—networks of defense, training regimens, supply lines, and communication relays across nations.
But over and over, they returned to a single, immovable truth: the awakened were the keystone of it all.
"In the last timeline," Arasha said, voice calm but weighted with memory, "once the rifts opened, people began awakening to powers gifted by the gods. They were our shields and our spearpoint. Without them, every countermeasure we built would have been… far less effective."
Kane nodded, adding, "The first awakenings happened early, but the majority didn't appear until months after the rifts had begun tearing through the land. We can't say if the timing will be the same this time—or if they will come at all."
Linalee's brow furrowed, her fingers tapping against the armrest of her chair. "Then we cannot build a strategy that depends solely on their appearance," she said firmly. "We must plan as though no one will awaken—at least at first."
Rewald, ever pragmatic, leaned forward. "Agreed. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. We modify the countermeasures so they function even if the gods keep their silence this time."
King Alight inclined his head in agreement, his eyes scanning each of them in turn. "Then that will be our standing assumption. Every plan must hold without divine intervention."
Arasha and Kane began laying out more details—battlefield tactics, methods to stabilize rift activity, and the diplomatic protocols that had kept alliances intact through the chaos before.
Kane described fortified safe zones with layered defenses, while Arasha recalled which nations had mobilized quickly and which had hesitated until it was nearly too late.
Through it all, Linalee listened sharply, her mind already running ahead to the political tangles this would cause, while Rewald pressed for contingencies, refusing to let any point pass without a counterpoint.
King Alight took it all in, committing every word to memory, the gravity of their task settling deep in the room like the weight of an oncoming storm.
When Kane finally finished, the silence that followed was heavy—but it was not without purpose.
****
Maps, ledgers, and parchment crowded the great oak table, the ink-stained battlefield where plans began to take shape. King Alight stood at the head, directing with steady precision as the others contributed.
"We'll need recruitment cells in each major city," Linalee said, marking locations with a swift hand. "Not just soldiers—mages, alchemists, healers, smiths. Anyone whose skills can tip the balance."
Rewald leaned over her shoulder, adding, "And not only front-line fighters. Logistics will make or break us—transport crews, quartermasters, and supply coordinators."
Arasha spoke next, her voice measured but urgent. "Establish a central registry for the awakened—once they appear—so they can be assessed and placed where they're most effective."
Kane suggested layered defensive zones: a ring of fortified towns around key strongholds, with relay posts to pass messages in hours, not days. His mind worked in the patterns of someone who had already lived through such chaos and refused to let history crush them twice.
By the time the discussion reached its end, a provisional defense network sprawled across the table in marks of ink and wax seals—a fragile scaffold for a war that hadn't yet begun. But it was something.
King Alight exhaled softly. "Then it begins now."
The trio departed with purpose, their footsteps echoing down the marble corridor as they carried orders to be set in motion. Servants scurried to relay summons, messengers already riding into the night.
Linalee, however, lingered. She waited until the last shadow of their departing forms slipped from view before she turned back toward the king. He stood by the window, gaze fixed outward, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture that might have fooled anyone else.
"You keep your front well," she said quietly.
He turned slightly, one brow raised. "Do I?"
She stepped closer, her voice gentler now. "But you are free to grieve, you know. For the love you never spoke aloud."
His composure faltered for the barest moment—a crack in glass, a breath caught in the chest. Then a smile, fragile and wry, touched his lips. "I can't believe you saw through me."
Her reply was immediate, without hesitation. "I've been beside you since we were children. Of course I know your heart—and your feelings toward Arasha."
Silence stretched between them, filled with the soft ticking of the library clock.
Linalee's tone softened even further. "You are free to mourn her, Alight. Do so, so you can carry forward without chains pulling at you."
He looked away then, toward the dimming horizon, and though his smile remained, it no longer hid the grief beneath.
When Linalee's footsteps faded into the corridor's hush, the library seemed to grow larger, emptier.
King Alight stood unmoving for a moment, hands still clasped behind his back, before slowly drifting toward the desk strewn with maps and plans.
His gaze wandered—not to the war charts or the ink drying on parchment—but to the faint glimmer of a hairpin resting atop a forgotten book.
He reached for it with deliberate care, fingers brushing the cool metal as if afraid the memory it carried might shatter.
The fire in the hearth had burned low, its light flickering weak and restless against the shelves.
In the shifting shadows, his eyes softened, as though seeing not the empty room but a vision only he could hold—Arasha's smile beside him, her hand resting briefly over his on the same maps, her laughter woven into the rhythm of planning for a future they would never share.
The weight of the crown felt heavier than iron in that moment.
A single tear slid free, tracing a path down his cheek. Then another, falling silent onto the edge of the map, blurring a line between two cities.
He did not brush them away.
Instead, he stood there, still and quiet, holding onto the fragile ghost of what might have been, until the embers sank into ash.