The peace didn't last.
Six months after establishing diplomatic relations with the crystalline beings, the Western Kingdoms announced they were creating their own universe.
"Without oversight?" I asked during the emergency council meeting. "Without training or supervision?"
"We've studied your techniques," Duke Frostborn said. "We've learned from the crystalline beings. We're ready to proceed independently."
"You've had less than a year of study. I spent months of intensive work with a millennia-old demon king. You're not ready."
"That's your opinion. We disagree."
"It's not opinion—it's fact. Universe creation requires perfect synchronization, deep understanding of dimensional mechanics, and the ability to sustain enormous magical channeling for months. You don't have those capabilities yet."
"Then we'll develop them through practical application."
"At what cost? If you fail catastrophically, you could kill thousands. Destabilize local reality. Create void corruptions we can't contain."
"We appreciate your concern. But the Western Kingdoms are sovereign. We don't require your permission."
The meeting devolved into argument. Other kingdoms took sides—some supporting my call for caution, others defending the Western Kingdoms' right to experiment.
"This is fracturing the alliance," Kael observed afterward. "The Seven Realms are splitting over universe-creation rights."
"I know. But I can't let them attempt this unprepared. The risks are too high."
"Can you actually stop them?"
That was the question. Legally, no. Each kingdom was sovereign. I had no authority to prevent their experiments.
Practically, maybe. I could withdraw support, refuse to help if things went wrong, let them face consequences alone.
Morally... that felt wrong. Even if they were being reckless, I couldn't abandon them to catastrophic failure.
"I'll offer supervised assistance," I decided. "They can proceed with their attempt, but I'll be there to intervene if necessary. Minimize the damage if things go wrong."
"That's more generous than they deserve."
"Probably. But it's the right thing to do."
The Western Kingdoms accepted my offer grudgingly. They clearly wanted to prove they didn't need my help, but also recognized the safety value of my presence.
Their attempt began three weeks later.
I watched as their mages—twelve of them working in coordinated teams—began channeling void energy. They'd studied the techniques carefully, understood the theory, practiced the basics.
It wasn't nearly enough.
Within hours, I could see the flaws. Their synchronization was off by microseconds—trivial in normal magic, catastrophic in universe creation. Their understanding of dimensional mechanics was surface-level, missing subtle complexities. Their channeling wasn't sustainable; they were already showing strain.
"They're going to fail," Nyx observed from the monitoring station.
"I know. Question is whether they fail safely or catastrophically."
The answer came three days into the attempt.
One of the mages lost focus. Just a moment of distraction, a brief lapse in concentration. But at the scale they were operating, that moment was enough.
The forming dimensional structure collapsed.
The void energy they'd been channeling had nowhere to go. It exploded outward in a wave of destructive force that I barely managed to contain.
"Everyone out!" I shouted, throwing up shields while trying to redirect the void energy safely.
The chamber we'd designated for the attempt was destroyed. The explosion punched through three layers of protective wards. If I hadn't been there to contain it, the blast would have leveled several city blocks.
When the chaos settled, eight of the twelve mages were dead. The other four were critically injured, corrupted by void energy exposure.
"Get them to medical immediately," I ordered. "Clara, I need your best healers. The void corruption is extensive."
Duke Frostborn appeared, staring at the destruction in horror.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"Exactly what I warned would happen. Your mages weren't ready. They attempted something beyond their capabilities and paid the price." I gestured at the ruined chamber. "Eight dead. Four critically injured. This is the catastrophic failure I was trying to prevent."
"This is your fault," he snarled. "If you'd properly trained them—"
"I offered training. You declined, insisting your mages were ready." I was too tired and angry to be diplomatic. "This blood is on your hands, not mine. You ignored warnings, rushed ahead recklessly, and got your people killed. Own that."
He stormed off, but I knew the political fallout would be severe.
I was right.
The Western Kingdoms blamed me for the disaster. Claimed I'd deliberately withheld crucial knowledge, sabotaged their attempt, or failed to intervene quickly enough.
Other kingdoms split on the issue. Some supported the Western position. Others acknowledged they'd been warned.
The alliance that had unified the Seven Realms was fracturing.
"This is exactly what Damien faced," Elara said during a private strategy session. "Political fragmentation, kingdoms turning against each other, blame being assigned regardless of facts."
"How did he handle it?"
"He conquered the rebellious kingdoms and imposed unity through force."
"I'm not doing that."
"I know. But you need a different solution, because this is getting worse."
She was right. Over the following weeks, three more kingdoms announced plans for independent universe creation. All insisted they'd learned from the Western Kingdom's mistakes. All refused oversight or supervision.
"They're going to fail too," Nyx predicted. "Pride and stubbornness don't overcome insufficient training."
"Can we prevent them from trying?"
"Not legally. We'd have to use force, which would make you exactly the tyrant they accuse you of being."
I felt trapped. Allow them to proceed and more people would die. Stop them forcibly and I'd become Damien.
"What would a good leader do?" I asked my council.
"Let them fail and face consequences," Sera said bluntly. "You warned them. You offered help. They refused. That's on them."
"But more people will die."
"People die all the time. You can't save everyone from their own stupidity."
"Harsh but not wrong," Nyx agreed. "You're not responsible for every death in the Seven Realms. Some consequences need to happen for lessons to stick."
"What if we create a more formal training program?" Aria suggested. "Mandatory certification before anyone attempts universe creation. Make it a safety requirement, not a power grab."
"The kingdoms that want independence won't accept mandatory anything from me."
"Then make it voluntary but incentivized. Kingdoms with certified creators get trade benefits, political support, access to sanctuary dimensions. Those without certification face isolation."
It was manipulative. But it might work.
"We'd need buy-in from enough kingdoms to make isolation actually costly," Kael noted. "If half the realms reject the system, it won't create pressure."
"Then we convince them. Show the data on failure rates, the casualties from unsupervised attempts, the benefits of proper training." Elara was already sketching strategies. "We make this about safety and mutual benefit, not control."
Over the next months, we campaigned for the formal certification system.
Queen Lyanna supported it immediately. The Northern Kingdoms followed her lead. The desert realms, trusting Zara, agreed. The Eastern Kingdoms were divided but eventually accepted.
The Western and Southern Kingdoms refused.
"You're creating a two-tier system," they argued. "Certified kingdoms versus uncertified. That's discrimination."
"It's quality control," I countered. "You don't let uncertified healers practice medicine. Why would universe creation have lower standards?"
"Because universe creation is a right, not a privilege."
"Rights don't include endangering others. Your failures affect everyone—reality destabilization doesn't respect borders."
The argument went nowhere. They were committed to independence regardless of consequences.
"Let them fail," Sera advised. "When their next attempt kills more people, the lesson will stick."
"How many need to die before that lesson takes?" I asked.
"However many it takes. That's not your fault."
But it felt like my fault. I had the knowledge to prevent these deaths. Refusing to help felt like abandonment, even if they'd rejected my assistance.
The Southern Kingdom's attempt came first.
They'd studied the Western Kingdom's failure, adjusted their approach, recruited more talented mages. They were convinced they'd succeed.
They lasted five days before catastrophic collapse.
Seventeen dead. Twenty-three injured. A chunk of their capital city destroyed by the void energy release.
The political reaction was complex. Some blamed me for not intervening forcefully enough. Others acknowledged the Southern Kingdom had been warned and proceeded anyway.
But importantly, several previously skeptical kingdoms changed their position.
"We're accepting the certification program," one monarch announced. "The Southern Kingdom's disaster proves proper training is essential."
"We're requesting formal instruction from the Academy of Creation," another added. "Pride isn't worth lives."
Slowly, painfully, the majority of the Seven Realms came around.
Only the Western Kingdoms remained defiant, insisting they could master universe creation without outside help.
"Let them try," Nyx said. "Eventually they'll learn or destroy themselves. Either way, it's their choice."
"That's cold."
"It's reality. You've done everything possible to help. They've rejected it repeatedly. At some point, you have to let people face the consequences of their decisions."
She was right. But it still hurt.
During this political chaos, the crystalline beings made an unexpected offer.
"We wish to help train your people," Crystal-Who-Thinks-in-Harmonics communicated. "We've mastered the techniques you taught us. We can share that knowledge."
"That's generous. But why would you want to?"
"Because you gave us existence. We owe you debt beyond measure. Teaching others is small repayment."
"You don't owe me anything. Your existence is gift enough."
"We disagree. Debt of creation is eternal. We will never fully repay it, but we can try."
Their involvement transformed the Academy of Creation.
Having teachers from a universe with different physical laws provided perspectives human instructors couldn't match. The crystalline beings could demonstrate techniques in their reality, then translate them for conventional application.
"They're better teachers than I am," I admitted, watching a crystalline instructor guide students through dimensional manipulation.
"They have clarity you lack," Aria observed. "You learned through trial and error. They learned through systematic study of what you did. They can explain it better."
"That should bother me more than it does."
"Why would it bother you? You wanted knowledge distributed. You wanted others to learn. This achieves that goal."
"I guess I'm just not used to being surpassed."
"Get used to it. It's going to happen more and more." She smiled. "That's success—when students exceed their teachers."
Six months after the Southern Kingdom's disaster, we held the first graduation ceremony for certified reality-creators.
Twenty-three students from various kingdoms received formal certification. They'd spent months in intensive training, demonstrated mastery of techniques, proven they could safely attempt universe creation.
"This is the future," I said during the ceremony. "Knowledge shared, wisdom distributed, power held collaboratively rather than individually. This is what we're building."
The graduates returned to their kingdoms, ready to attempt supervised reality creation.
Not all would succeed. But they'd all be safe, properly trained, part of a community that supported each other.
It was working.
The multiversal politics were stabilizing.
Slowly, painfully, but stabilizing.
And maybe, just maybe, we could avoid the fracturing that had doomed Damien's timeline.