Snow returned.
Thicker this time—coating rooftops, muffling screams. As if the city itself wanted to forget what it had become.
Lysander stood atop the spire of the old library, cloak billowing, watching the palace from afar.
Below, the final plan took shape.
Brell distributed forged orders to remaining loyalists—confusing ranks, redirecting patrols. Meanwhile, Elara rallied the outer guards, using his title and presence to unify what remained of the city's defenders.
"He's not in the throne room," Elara said, joining Lysander.
"No," Lysander replied. "He's below."
"The catacombs?"
"The sanctum."
Elara hesitated. "Then we go now."
Lysander shook his head. "No. First, we finish the lie."
That night, they released a final proclamation—signed by the remaining council members, stamped with the ancestral seal: Valerius is no longer Regent.
It spread like wildfire.
Crowds formed. Not riots. Not protests.
Witnesses.
Ready to see what came next.
Lysander descended into the sanctum before dawn.
The walls were lined with mirrors—each reflecting not the room, but something else: fire, snow, blood, stars.
At the center stood Valerius.
"You came," he said without turning.
"I always do," Lysander replied.
The Regent wore no armor. Just robes. Black and silver.
"You were always meant to return," Valerius said. "You just didn't know why."
"And you think you do?"
"I've seen the loop," Valerius whispered. "The cycle. I've seen us all—again and again—making the same choices. Breaking the same threads."
Lysander approached. "Then end it."
Valerius turned.
Held up a shard.
Not corrupted.
Not pure.
Balanced.
"You don't break cycles," he said. "You bleed them dry."
He shattered the shard against the floor.
The room screamed.
Reality bent inward.
Lysander felt his mind split—memories not his, voices not his, futures not his.
Then silence.
Valerius collapsed.
Lysander knelt beside him.
"Why?"
Valerius smiled weakly. "To give you… a chance."
He died.
Not with a curse.
With a sigh.
And in that breath, something shifted.