The next morning, Yegr was up before the bell. Sleep had been impossible — every time he closed his eyes, he saw the statue of Lorran and the smoke of a siege that shouldn't have happened that way.
He headed to the dueling grounds early, hoping to lose himself in drills. The yard was empty except for a single figure practicing near the east wall, their movements sharp and deliberate.
At first, Yegr didn't recognize them.
Then the light caught the face, and his stomach turned.
Serra Veylan.
In the original timeline, Serra had been one of his most trusted allies — a healer who'd pulled him from the brink more than once. Loyal, fearless… and dead before the war's final push, cut down by a Shadowed Path assassin.
But now… something was different.
Her stance was wrong. Her blade work was… lethal in a way he had never seen from her. She wasn't practicing healing stances — these were killing strikes, fast and silent.
"Morning," she said without turning.
Yegr forced his tone steady. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Too much to do," she replied, lowering her blade. "Opportunities to prepare… they don't come often."
There was an edge to her words, like she was speaking about something more than training.
She finally turned, and her eyes met his. For just a heartbeat, they weren't the warm, steady eyes of the Serra he knew — they were cold, calculating.
Then the moment was gone. She smiled faintly. "See you at drills."
As she walked past him, Yegr caught the faint glint of something tucked under her sleeve — a strip of black cloth embroidered with a curling silver mark.
He'd seen that mark before.
The sigil of the Shadowed Path.