The wind had settled now, the tears long since dried on his cheek. Outside the frosted windowpane, morning rolled in — colorless and slow — like parchment dipped in ash.
It was quiet. That rare kind of quiet only found in mountains, or memories. The world, for one moment, seemed to breathe in.
The knock was not hesitant.
It came heavy and quick — three sharp thuds, then a pause.
The man didn't flinch. He sat still by the open window, one arm resting on his bent knee, eyes wandering across the snow-draped hills beyond the valley. The mountains were sleeping giants. The barracks below looked small. Peaceful. Fragile.
Another knock. Then the door swung open with a creak of old wood.
A figure stepped in — broad-shouldered, battle-scarred, wrapped in a thick wolfskin coat. He didn't speak right away. Just stared at the man by the window, who hadn't yet turned.
Then, without a word, he walked over and placed one calloused hand on the man's shoulder.
It stayed there.
Warm. Familiar.
"…Ten minutes until the war council," he said, finally. His voice still carried that gravel-smooth tone, like someone who'd learned to whisper in storms. "You're not planning on skipping, are you?"
No answer. Just the sound of wind brushing the shutters.
The man by the window finally looked up.
And there he was — exactly the same. Same smirk, same uneven beard, same deep scar under the left eye from that skirmish outside Feldran Pass. He looked alive.
He looked real.
"…Rurik," the man whispered.
The name landed in his throat like a stone.
And for a brief, breathless second, there was peace. A joy so simple, it hurt. Rurik hadn't changed at all. He even smelled the same — iron and cedar and smoke. Being beside him felt like walking barefoot through an old house you used to live in. You didn't realize how much you missed the floorboards until they creaked the same way.
But then came the weight.
The memory.
The sound of bones cracking beneath rubble. The cough of blood. The way Rurik's body had slumped when the tower fell, how his fingers had still been reaching for his weapon.
He had died screaming his name.
He had died.
And now… here he was. Alive. Laughing. Whole.
The man felt something twist in his chest.
Was it joy? Was it guilt?
Was it weakness?
His breath caught. The tears almost returned. He hadn't cried in the old timeline — not even at the end. But this…
This was worse.
Because this time, he had a chance. A cruel, beautiful second chance. And with it came the same promise — never again.
"I missed this," he said softly. "You barging in like you own the place."
"I do own the place," Rurik replied, slapping his back once before stepping away. "Now hurry up. If you show up late again, General Halvor's going to shove a lance up your—"
"I'm going. I'm going," the man muttered.
Rurik disappeared into the hallway, laughing like a storm passing through trees.
The door creaked shut behind him.
And for a moment longer, the man sat still. Letting the silence stretch. Letting the warmth fade. Then — slowly — he stood. Picked up his spear from the corner. Straightened the cloak slung over the chair.
The floor felt cold under his boots. His muscles still ached in strange places — not from battle, but from time. His bones were heavier than before. Maybe because he remembered too much.
He stepped outside.
The early morning light was dull and blue. Frost clung to the branches like cobwebs. Down the hill, soldiers moved between tents, some still yawning, others laughing around cookfires. The scent of barley porridge drifted on the wind.
It felt like home.
No.
It had once felt like home.
Back when they didn't know what the humans would do. Before the treaties burned. Before the world learned to fear a child just because her blood was mixed. Before the relics were stolen. Before they were hunted like beasts.
Before the humans took everything.
He walked slowly. The crunch of snow underfoot became rhythm. Memory. A march of ghosts.
As he crossed the training yard, a younger officer saluted him.
"Sir! You're up early."
He nodded back. "What day is it?"
"Seventh of Neral, sir."
Neral.
So it was today.
His eyes narrowed. Something about today had gone wrong. He remembered that. Not the specifics — just the taste of it. The smell of fire on parchment. A storm gathering behind closed doors.
He tried to piece it together.
The generals. The order. The betrayal in the ranks. No — not yet. That came later. But today, something shifted. Something subtle. Like the first crack in a dam.
He had to remember. He needed to.
But the memories weren't perfect. They never had been. He hadn't seen everything the first time, and time was a cruel archivist.
Still, his steps didn't falter.
He approached the council hall — a wide stone building with crimson banners fluttering from the archway. He could already hear voices inside. Some familiar. Some not.
He reached for the handle.
And just as his fingers brushed the wood—
"Hey!"
Rurik was leaning just beyond the doorway, arms crossed, grinning like he always did when he'd just insulted someone important.
"You coming or not?"
The man looked up.
And for a heartbeat — just one — the guilt lifted.
That voice. That smile. That ridiculous grin. It grounded him.
He took a breath. Straightened his spine.
And stepped inside.