The palace's east wing fell by morning.
Elara led the charge—cloak torn, blade drawn. Not just a prince now. A symbol.
Soldiers rallied to his banner, not because of blood, but belief.
Lysander moved through smoke-filled halls, directing skirmishes with silent gestures, redirecting forces like a grandmaster at war. He never drew a blade. He never needed to.
Every corridor, every hidden passage, he had memorized.
But it wasn't enough.
In the grand vestibule, they found resistance—mercenaries wearing glass-eyed helms, wielding weapons that shimmered with anti-Weave resonance.
"Pull back!" Elara shouted, shielding a fallen guard.
"No," Lysander said. "Push forward. They're not here to win. They're here to delay."
And delay they did.
By nightfall, the inner sanctum still stood, untouched.
Valerius had not fled. Nor had he issued proclamation.
He waited.
"Why?" Elara asked, breathing hard.
"Because he believes he's already won," Lysander answered.
They regrouped in the observatory tower.
Brell arrived with bruised ribs and a bloodied scroll.
"He's invoking ancient law," he said. "Citing a forgotten clause that allows regents to rule indefinitely during 'dimensional crises.'"
Elara spat. "He's calling this a dimensional crisis?"
Lysander looked toward the west. "Because it is."
The Weave was shaking.
Not visibly—but subtly. Lamps flickered where they shouldn't. Insects behaved erratically. Time in certain corridors bent slightly—minutes stretching into hours.
"The shards are reacting," Lysander said.
"You mean… all of them?" Elara asked.
Lysander nodded. "The Prophet has one. The diplomat had another. I suspect Valerius has a third."
"What happens if they're brought together?"
Lysander didn't answer.
That night, he returned to the archive.
Alone.
The shard on the pedestal pulsed. Faster now. Wild.
He placed his hand on it—and saw flashes.
Cities torn from the earth. People unraveling mid-thought. A sky split by something neither light nor shadow.
And at the center…
A throne of glass.
Occupied.
By him.
He tore his hand away.
"No," he whispered. "That's not me."
But deep down, he wasn't sure.