The royal archives burned.
Not from fire—but from decay.
Scrolls crumbled. Ink faded. Records rewritten by time or intent. Lysander stood among the dust, retrieving what remained—not history, but memory.
"They erased entire lineages," Brell said, brushing soot from a ledger. "Even bloodlines tied to the Weave."
"Because knowledge is threat," Lysander replied. "To those who pretend power is inherited."
Among the wreckage, they found a sealed box—ironwood and silver-threaded. It bore no crest, only a single word carved in an old dialect: "Echo."
Elara opened it carefully.
Inside: letters. Hundreds. Most were personal. Some political.
All addressed to one name: Cassian.
Lysander paled.
Elara looked up. "You know him?"
"I was him."
The room stilled.
In a past life, Lysander had ruled—not as king, but as shadow. Cassian had been his name in that world. And the letters…
"They're from her," he whispered.
Each letter was unsigned.
But he knew the handwriting.
Knew the cadence.
Knew the pain hidden in syntax.
"She remembered me," Lysander said.
Brell leaned closer. "Then why kill you?"
Lysander didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
Not yet.
That night, he laid the letters out like pieces on a chessboard.
Patterns emerged.
Mentions of a storm that never came. References to the 'False Architect.' Warnings about 'the glass path.'
And one recurring phrase:
"We loved before time knew how to count."
Elara entered quietly. "You alright?"
"No," Lysander replied. "But I understand more."
In his dream, she stood across from him.
Older. Wiser. Sad.
"I tried to save you," she said.
"By killing me?"
"It was the only way."
He reached for her hand.
This time, she didn't vanish.
But neither did she stay.