Rain fell over the city like whispered warnings. The kind of rain that soaked not only clothes, but thoughts.
Lysander stood on a balcony overlooking the palace courtyard, the chess piece in his hand slick with water. He turned it slowly, watching the droplets race across obsidian curves.
Behind him, Elara approached with a sealed letter.
"From the southern provinces," the prince said.
Lysander opened it, reading in silence. His jaw tightened.
"They're siding with the Prophet," he said.
Elara cursed under his breath. "That's three provinces now."
"No," Lysander corrected. "That's three claimed by rumor. We need confirmation."
The letter contained half-truths—designed to mislead, sow fear. A clever tactic.
Elara leaned on the railing. "The Regent won't wait much longer. He's already tightened patrols. Banned public gatherings."
"He's sealing the pot," Lysander said.
"Hoping it boils over."
They returned to the archive, the chamber where the Weave-shard pulsed faintly beneath its veil. The glow had dimmed since last week.
"It's weakening," Elara noted.
"It's syncing," Lysander corrected. "Adjusting to the fractures."
"You sound like a scholar."
"I was," Lysander said quietly. "Once."
They turned to strategy. Every noble was now a possible threat or tool. Each gathering, each whisper, a potential pivot point. Elara absorbed faster now—tracking motives, anticipating shifts. His instincts sharpened by pressure.
That night, Lysander had a dream.
He stood on a battlefield not of this world. Sky aflame. Weave threads unraveled midair, flailing like severed nerves. And at the center, a woman—her face obscured, her voice familiar.
"You left me," she said.
"I had no choice."
"You always have a choice."
He reached for her.
She raised a blade.
He woke in cold sweat, heart pounding.
In the archive, he recorded symbols from the dream—patterns, fragments, pieces. Some matched the Weave-shard's internal hum.
Elara entered, surprised to see him awake. "Another dream?"
Lysander nodded.
"Same woman?"
"Yes."
"You remember her?"
"Only the regret."
The rain hadn't stopped. Nor would it, for days.
Some storms, Lysander knew, didn't pass.
They consumed.