Word of the Prophet's defeat spread faster than any proclamation.
No trumpet announced it. No decree declared it.
But still, they knew.
The city's rhythm changed—quieter, more deliberate. The kind of silence that came after a storm, unsure whether the sun would follow or the rain would return.
Lysander sat with Elara in the war room, the same table once ruled by Valerius, now surrounded by a different circle. Loyalists, reformers, skeptics—bound together not by faith, but survival.
"You've earned the crown," said one noble.
"I didn't fight for a crown," Elara replied.
"He did," someone muttered, nodding at Lysander.
But Lysander remained quiet.
He was elsewhere—in thought, in memory.
Later, he wandered the palace alone. Every corridor whispered history. Statues stared at him with blind marble eyes. And the throne room—once opulent—now felt like a tomb.
He stood before the throne but didn't approach it.
Instead, he turned to a side alcove—where a tapestry had been torn down, revealing an old mural beneath. One long forgotten.
It showed the First Strategist.
Not a king. Not a noble.
A man with no face—only a mirrored mask—standing behind the seated monarch, whispering into their ear.
Lysander stared for a long time.
Then smiled.
He returned to Elara at dusk.
"You'll be named regent," Lysander said. "But only temporarily."
Elara frowned. "And then?"
"We'll dissolve the throne."
The table erupted in shouts. But Elara raised a hand.
"He's right," he said.
Lysander continued. "The Weave is too fragile for kings. We need scholars. Leaders. Not rulers."
And so, the plan began.
To rebuild not just the kingdom—but its foundation.
That night, Lysander dreamt again.
This time, he stood in the throne room.
Alone.
The throne shattered.
Glass underfoot.
And a voice—faint, distant—called from the shadows.
"Remember me."