(Arc 2: The Fractured Crown)
The capital of Eryndor did not sleep—
but it did whisper.
Oryn stepped out of the carriage, boots landing on white-marble streets veined with silver. Above him, skybridges arched between towers carved with runes from an age long forgotten. The air vibrated faintly, like distant bells ringing beneath the stone.
"The City of Memory…" Lysandra murmured beside him. "It's beautiful."
Beautiful wasn't the word Oryn would use.
Oppressive, maybe.
Knowing, definitely.
The city felt aware—like it was watching him.
Calder hopped out behind them, yawning. "First time here. Any chance the nobles won't try to stab us?"
"No," Oryn said.
Lysandra elbowed him lightly. "You could at least pretend."
He nearly smiled—nearly.
The moment her sleeve brushed his arm, a faint static shiver crawled up his skin. The Thread between them, fragile yet undeniable, pulled tighter ever since the Rite.
But Arc 2 wasn't forgiving.
He knew what was coming.
Before he could say anything, the ground shifted. A pulse rolled through the street like a heartbeat.
Lysandra stiffened. "Did you feel that?"
Oryn nodded. "Memory surge. This place is built on layered echoes. Be careful—some memories bite."
Calder blinked. "What kind of—"
The world warped.
For a split second, Oryn stood not in a city, but on a battlefield of broken marble. Shadows of ancient soldiers screamed. A colossal crown split into three pieces hovered above a dying king. A woman cloaked in white flames reached toward the crown—
Then it vanished.
Lysandra steadied herself on Oryn's arm. "That wasn't just a vision."
"No," Oryn said quietly. "It was a warning."
---
The Palace of Remnants
They approached the heart of the capital—an obsidian palace streaked with gold. The doors opened as if expecting them.
Inside, the air was cold.
Too cold.
Oryn's breath fogged.
A figure waited on a throne of black stone, legs crossed, eyes bright with cruel amusement.
Prince Atheus.
The prodigy of the empire.
The one person Oryn absolutely wished he never had to meet this early.
"At last," Atheus said, voice smooth as silk and sharp as glass. "The prophet boy arrives."
Calder muttered, "What? Did he just—"
Oryn raised one hand slightly: shut up.
Atheus leaned forward. "They say you can see the future. How convenient… because I am in need of someone who can help me find something."
Oryn already knew what it was.
"The Fractured Crown," he said.
Lysandra sucked in a breath.
Atheus smiled. "Good. You are as useful as they say."
Oryn felt a chill crawl down his spine.
Because in the timeline he remembered…
Atheus was not supposed to know about the Crown yet.
Everything was shifting.
His future knowledge—
his biggest advantage—
was failing.
And Arc 2 was just beginning.
---
A whisper that didn't belong
As they left the throne room, Lysandra walked beside him, quiet for once.
"Oryn," she said softly, "are you sure you're okay? You looked… shaken."
He almost told her the truth.
That the timeline was collapsing.
That the danger of Arc 2 was beyond anything she imagined.
But instead, he said, "I'll manage."
Lysandra stepped closer. "You don't have to manage alone."
Her hand brushed his—not touching, just hovering near.
It was nothing.
And it was everything.
Oryn swallowed.
Romance wasn't supposed to bloom here.
Not in a city built from memories of the dead.
Not on the eve of a battle for fate itself.
But even so…
For the first time since his regression, he felt something warm cut through the cold.
Maybe that was why the city whispered again.
Quieter this time.
Gentler.
He will need her.
She will break—or save him.
The Crown chooses hearts before kings.
Oryn exhaled.
"Lysandra," he said, "there's something you should know about Arc Two."
She raised a brow. "Arc… what?"
He blinked.
Right. He said that out loud.
"Never mind," he said quickly.
But the city—
and the story—
knew better:
Arc 2 had begun.
And the first piece of the Crown was already stirring beneath the capital.