Dawn broke blood-red.
The city stirred beneath a sky that promised no peace. Smoke still curled from the temple district, though the fires had long since died. People whispered now, not in fear—but in anger.
Elara stood before the high council, reading from a scroll drafted hours earlier.
"The Regent has acted against the will of the kingdom," he declared. "His rule is no longer sanctioned by tradition, law, or Weave."
Murmurs spread like ripples.
Councilors glanced at one another, weighing legacy against survival.
Lysander watched from the shadows. Not a part of the circle. Not needing to be.
By midday, three councilors had pledged to Elara's side. A fourth fled the capital entirely.
The fracture was now visible.
"We need to move fast," Elara said later, pacing the archive. "Before Valerius retaliates."
"He already has," Lysander replied.
They turned as Brell entered—cloak singed, breath short.
"They've taken the outer market," he said. "And the southern gate."
"Militia?"
"No," Brell said grimly. "Foreign mercenaries. Pale-skinned. Eyes like glass."
Lysander froze.
Callesh.
Elara paled. "The diplomat?"
"Gone," Brell confirmed. "Vanished before dawn."
"He was a marker," Lysander whispered. "A signal."
They weren't just fighting the Prophet now.
They were fighting a second hand from the past.
That evening, they met with their remaining allies in the catacombs—ancient tunnels beneath the palace, once used by the first king to escape siege.
Maps were drawn. Lines drawn. Contingencies prepared.
"We strike the palace itself," Lysander said. "Before Valerius seals it."
A noblewoman objected. "It's too early."
"Wait," Lysander said, "and there won't be a palace to strike."
The vote passed.
Tomorrow, they would make their move.
That night, Lysander dreamed again.
This time, the woman was crying.
"You still don't see," she whispered.
He reached for her hand.
But it passed through him—like smoke.
He woke to the sound of bells.
Not alarm.
Not mourning.
Wedding bells.
A memory.
From a different life.