The Fourthmarch was quiet.
Not the calm of safety—but the stillness that followed intent fulfilled.
Kael slowed near the riverbank, boots crunching softly in the thin crust of snow. The land here bore no scars of battle. No scorched earth. No broken wards. Just tracks already fading, as if whoever had crossed knew exactly how long they needed to stay.
"They didn't come to provoke us," Kael said at last.
Soren stood a few paces ahead, gaze fixed on the opposite shore. His posture was rigid, alert—not the stance of a man expecting an attack, but of one dissecting absence.
"No," Soren agreed. "They would have stayed longer."
Kael crouched, brushing frost from the ground with two fingers.
"There," he said quietly.
Soren was beside him in an instant.
Half-buried beneath ice and mud lay something dark and smooth. Not stone. Not metal. Too uniform for either. Kael lifted it carefully.
It fit in his palm.
A shard—curved, almost organic, its surface etched with fine markings that were not runes, not language, not decoration. Old. Purposeful. And utterly out of place.
Soren took it from him, turning it slowly.
"This doesn't belong to the North," he said.
"No," Kael replied. "And it doesn't belong to Kharath either."
The Sentinels nearby had gone still, instinctively sensing the shift. No one spoke.
"They crossed here," Kael continued. "Not to test patrols. Not to draw you out."
"To find this," Soren said.
"Yes," Kael answered. "Or to confirm it was still here."
Soren's jaw tightened. "Why leave it behind?"
Kael's eyes sharpened. "Because they didn't need to take it."
Silence pressed in.
"This isn't a weapon," Kael went on. "It's not a ward. And it's not a beacon."
"What is it, then," Soren asked.
Kael hesitated only a fraction of a second.
"Residue," he said. "Left when a boundary is stressed. When something passes through where it should not."
Soren went still.
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying this is not the crossing," Kael interrupted. "It's proof that one occurred. Somewhere else."
The wind cut across the river, sharp and cold.
"They came to confirm a theory," Soren said slowly.
"Yes," Kael replied. "That the barriers are not as impermeable as believed."
"And that whatever crossed was… unusual," Soren added.
Kael nodded once. "Not from this world."
The words settled heavily between them.
"Elena," Soren said quietly.
Kael didn't contradict him. There was no need.
"She didn't come through this border," Kael said carefully. "But this fragment tells them what kind of event they're looking for."
Soren closed his fist around the shard.
"They found what they needed," he said. "And withdrew."
"Yes," Kael agreed. "Which means the search isn't over. It's only shifting."
Soren straightened, already resolved.
"We return to the citadel," he said. "Immediately."
Kael inclined his head. "I'll alert the archivists. Pre-War boundary theory. Anything referencing residual crossings."
"And Kael," Soren added, mounting his horse in one fluid motion.
Kael looked up.
"This remains between us," Soren said. "Elena does not carry this yet."
Kael studied him for a beat, then nodded. "Understood."
They rode out without ceremony, the Sentinels falling into formation behind them. The river continued to flow, unchanged, unbothered.
The land looked peaceful.
Which was what made it dangerous.
Because Kharath had not come to challenge the North.
They had come to confirm that something impossible had already happened.
And now, they knew it was real.
...
Meanwhile, Back at the Citadel
Elena paced.
She paced the length of her chambers. She paced the width. She paced diagonally, in case that helped.
It did not. Three days.
Three days since Soren had ridden out with armor gleaming and murder in his posture. Three days of no word. No updates. No dramatic return through the gates.
Just waiting.
Which, Elena decided bitterly, was medieval nonsense.
She stopped mid-pace and glared at the window.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "I am not a maiden in a tower."
She gestured vaguely toward the glass.
"I am not throwing a handkerchief. I do not own a handkerchief. And even if I did, it would not be monogrammed."
She resumed pacing.
Her brain, traitorous and unhelpful, supplied images anyway: Soren at the border. Soren fighting. Soren bleeding. Soren not coming back.
"Nope," she said aloud. "We are not doing that."
Her chest felt tight. Her shoulders were up around her ears. She was vibrating with unused energy and anxiety like a phone left on a charger too long.
She stopped abruptly.
"Okay," she said, hands on hips. "We are doing something constructive before I invent a tragic ballad."
She crossed the room and opened the trunk at the foot of her bed.
Inside: folded dresses, spare boots, and—wrapped carefully in cloth—one of the few truly ridiculous things she'd brought through the Rift with her.
Yoga pants.
She stared at them.
Then smiled.
"Modern medicine meets medieval crisis management," she murmured.
A few minutes later, she stood barefoot on the rug, dressed in dark, soft leggings and a loose linen tunic knotted at the waist. She rolled her shoulders, inhaled deeply.
"Okay," she whispered. "Sun salutation. Grounding. Breathing. Not thinking about war princes."
She raised her arms overhead.
Inhale. Folded forward. Exhale.
Stepped back into plank, muscles protesting pleasantly.
"See?" she told herself. "Functional coping."
She flowed upward, chest lifting, spine arching—feeling strength return, tension ease.
Downward-facing—
The door opened.
Elena froze mid-pose.
Barefoot. Upside down. Legs very much doing their thing.
"Oh," Soren said.
She yelped and nearly face-planted into the rug.
"What—NO—WAIT—DON'T—"
She scrambled upright, hair flying, cheeks flaming.
Soren stood just inside the doorway, travel-worn, cloak still dusted with road grime, armor partially unbuckled.
Alive. Whole. Looking profoundly confused.
"What," he said slowly, eyes flicking from her bare feet to her legs to the unfamiliar cut of fabric hugging her hips, "are you doing?"
Elena straightened, mortified and relieved in equal measure.
"Yoga."
Silence.
"Yoga," he repeated.
"Yes."
He looked at her legs again. Then her stance. Then her face.
"…Is it a form of combat?"
"No," she said. "Unless you count fighting existential dread."
A beat.
Then—very quietly—Soren exhaled a breath that sounded suspiciously like relief.
"You made no sound," she accused weakly.
"You were upside down," he replied. "I assumed you knew I was here."
"I did not," she snapped. "I was communing with my inner peace."
His mouth twitched. Just barely.
"I apologize for interrupting," he said. "Though I am… glad I did."
Her heart kicked.
"You're back," she said, unnecessarily.
"Yes."
"You're not injured."
"No."
"You're not—"
"Dead," he finished gently. "Correct."
She nodded once, swallowing hard. "Well," she said, gesturing vaguely at herself, "as you can see, I coped."
He studied her with an expression she couldn't quite read—something warm and intent and very much alive.
"I can see that," he said.
And suddenly, the room felt very small. Very quiet. Very aware that neither of them had stopped looking at the other.
Elena cleared her throat. "I, uh. I'll—finish."
He didn't move. "I don't mind watching," he said, voice low.
She stared at him.
"…That was not an invitation."
"I know," he replied calmly.
Her lips twitched despite herself. Gods help her. He was back.
And the citadel, inconveniently, felt whole again.