The Soul Weave pulsed faintly in the distance, like a heartbeat buried beneath the skin of the world.
Lysander sat against the cold wall of his cell, a strip of parchment in his hands, lines of ink forming patterns that only he could see. Not mere words—configurations. He was mapping connections, testing theories. The Soul Weave was fraying, yes, but not randomly. Someone, somewhere, was pulling threads.
Prince Elara returned on the third night, cloak pulled tight and eyes darting through the corridor like a hunted animal. The boy was changing—gaining caution, shedding naïveté.
"You were followed," Lysander said without looking up.
Elara froze. "I was careful."
"The dust on your boot changed color halfway up the stair. Your breathing is shallow. And you smell of lavender oil—your mother's guards use it to mask sweat."
Elara muttered a curse. "You're insufferable."
"I'm alive. The two often coincide."
The prince tossed a scroll between the iron bars. "It's a partial map of the lower palace. Including the tunnels."
Lysander's eyes gleamed. "Better."
"We'll need more than that."
"We will. But not today."
They fell into routine. Each night, Elara brought news—whispers from the court, guard rotations, changes in noble allegiances. Each day, Lysander processed it all, refining a network of influence and probabilities in his mind.
He spoke little of his past, and Elara didn't ask. But once, as they studied a scroll by flickering torchlight, the prince dared a question.
"You don't speak like a man from this kingdom. Who were you, really?"
Lysander paused, then spoke softly. "A strategist. Once. In another place. Another life."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Elara frowned. "You were a heretic, weren't you? That's why they hate you."
"I spoke a truth their gods wouldn't admit."
"What truth?"
"That the weave is not divine. It is code."
Elara stared at him. "You mean... like a language?"
"A system. Programmable. Replicable. Fallible."
"That's madness."
"Is it?" Lysander leaned forward. "You feel it, don't you? The stuttering in the threads. The misfires. The inconsistencies."
Elara swallowed. "I thought it was just me."
"No. It's the world."
Outside the cell, the torches flickered. A chill ran through the corridor.
"Soon," Lysander said, voice barely a whisper, "the world will remember what it means to be rewritten."