Alexander closed his eyes for just a heartbeat. Then he opened the door and stepped inside as the door closed softly behind him.
The warmth of the cabin wrapped around Alexander as it always did—the fire crackling, the low murmur of voices, the faint clink of dishes being set aside. Devon was mid-sentence, Harold leaned back in his chair, and John stood near the table, hands loosely resting at his sides.
Alexander took three steps inside. His expression hadn't changed much—but Margaret noticed. She always did.
Her conversation faltered, words catching in her throat as she looked up at him. The color drained just slightly from her face. She set her mug down carefully, as if afraid even that small sound might shatter something.
"Alexander…?" she said quietly.
The room stilled.
John turned at the sound of his name, his brow furrowing as he took in Alexander's face. The calm certainty that usually surrounded him was gone—replaced by something heavier. Sharper.
Devon glanced between them. "Okay," he said cautiously. "That's the 'something's very wrong' look."
Harold straightened, instincts flaring. "What happened?"
Alexander didn't answer right away.
He moved to the center of the room and stopped, the firelight casting deep shadows across his features. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady—but grim.
"We need to talk," he said.
His gaze settled on John.
John's stomach tightened.
"Alexander…" he said, stepping a little closer despite himself. "What is it? What's wrong?"
For a moment, Alexander didn't respond. He looked at each of them in turn—Margaret's pale, searching face, Harold's guarded readiness, Devon's forced humor slipping into quiet dread.
Then he exhaled, slow and heavy, as if the breath had been sitting in his chest for far too long.
"…Everything," he said softly.
The word landed harder than any shout could have.
Silence followed—thick, expectant.
Alexander straightened, resting both hands on his staff. "The time differential has collapsed," he began. "The Veil is no longer holding at the rate we believed." His eyes never left John's. "Every day you spend here equals two days in the outside world."
Margaret's hand flew to her mouth.
Devon's voice came out thin. "That's… that's not good."
"No," Alexander agreed. "It's catastrophic."
He took a step closer to the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. "The interference caused by the grimoires, the thinning Veil, and Astagoth's proximity has forced a correction. Time is bleeding outward."
John's pulse pounded in his ears. "So Fairview—"
"Is already under attack," Alexander said. "The revenants have begun their march."
Harold swore under his breath.
Alexander continued, each word precise. "The dead are rising. The boundary there is tearing from the inside. This was meant to happen later—much later—but the shift carried them forward."
Margaret shook her head slowly. "How many?"
"I don't know," Alexander said honestly. "Enough."
John clenched his fists. "And we've been here—training—resting—"
"Because you needed to," Alexander cut in firmly. "And because without control, you would have burned yourself out before you ever reached them." He softened slightly. "That part was not a mistake."
The fire cracked loudly, punctuating the moment.
John's voice came out tight, measured with effort. "So the seven days we've been here—"
"Fourteen," Alexander said immediately.
The word cut clean through the room.
"Fourteen days have passed in Fairview."
The fire popped sharply, a log collapsing in on itself.
Margaret staggered back a half step, gripping the edge of the table for support. "Two weeks…" she whispered. "We've lost two weeks."
Devon stared at the floor, jaw clenched. "Jesus."
Harold dragged a hand down his face, anger and guilt mixing into something sharp. "That's enough time for things to go real bad."
"Yes," Alexander said quietly. "It is."
Devon suddenly shot to his feet so fast his chair scraped loudly across the floor.
"My mom," he blurted, voice cracking despite his attempt to keep it together. "My little sister—she's still there. They're both still in Fairview." His hands came up to his head, fingers digging into his hair as panic finally broke through. "She walks her home from school every day. Every day. If the dead are rising—if things are tearing open—"
He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide and glassy. "They wouldn't know what to do. They wouldn't even know it's happening until it's right on top of them."
Margaret crossed the room instinctively, placing a steady hand on his arm. "Devon," she said gently. "Breathe. We'll figure this out."
Harold's jaw tightened. "He's right," he said. "Two weeks is more than enough time for people to disappear."
John's hand curled slowly into a fist at his side.
He watched Devon unravel—watched the panic spill out of him in sharp breaths and broken words while Margaret held him steady, murmuring comfort she wasn't sure she believed herself. Something in John's chest tightened… then hardened.
"No more," he murmured.
The words were quiet, almost lost beneath Devon's breathing—but Harold heard them.
John stepped forward.
As he passed, Harold caught the look in his eyes. Not reckless. Not panicked.
Decided.
Harold's mouth curved into the faintest smirk, the kind that meant things were already moving in his head. He turned away, already heading toward the back room. "I'll get my things," he muttered to himself, more statement than suggestion.
John stopped in front of Devon.
He placed a firm, grounding hand on his shoulder—not gentle, but steady. Devon looked up, eyes red, face streaked with tears, breath hitching as he tried and failed to pull himself together.
John met his gaze and didn't look away.
"I promise you," he said, voice low but unshakable. "I will find your mom. I will find your sister." His grip tightened just slightly, enough to be real. "I don't care what's standing in the way."
Devon swallowed hard. "You—you can't promise that—"
"I can," John said, cutting through the doubt. "And I am."
For a moment, Devon just stared at him. Then his shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as something steadier took its place—hope, fragile but breathing.
Margaret watched them, one hand still on Devon's arm, eyes shining.
From the back of the cabin, Harold's voice carried faintly. "Yeah," he said, half to himself as drawers opened and closed. "This is happening."
Alexander drew a breath, already stepping forward.
"John—" he began, voice measured, ready to slow this down, to pull them back from the edge just a little. "You need to think this through—"
"I'm coming with you."
Devon's words came out sharp and frantic, cutting straight through the room.
Everyone froze.
Devon wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve, eyes blazing now through the tears. "I'm not staying here while my family's out there. I don't care if I can't fight—I'll figure it out."
"No," John said immediately.
Not raised. Not angry. Final.
Devon blinked. "What?"
John turned fully to him, his hand still resting on Devon's shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice was calm—too calm to argue with. "You're not coming."
"That's not your call," Devon shot back.
"It is," John replied. "Because right now you don't have anything that can protect you out there. No training, no control, no way to survive a revenant if it gets close." He held Devon's gaze, unflinching. "And I'm not dragging you into something that will just get you killed."
Devon opened his mouth—
"And," John continued, not letting him interrupt, "we need you here."
That stopped him.
John took a slow breath. "Your rune smithing—what you're doing—it matters. A lot. More than you realize." He gestured vaguely toward the world beyond the cabin. "If Fairview's falling, if the dead are walking… then people are going to fight back. Regular people."
Harold reappeared from the back room, jacket slung over one shoulder, listening now.
"They're not going to have grimoires," John went on. "They're not going to have training. But they can have gear." His eyes locked back onto Devon's. "Armor. Protection. Weapons. Anything you can stabilize with runes."
Devon's breathing slowed, the panic giving way to stunned focus.
"While we're gone," John said, "I need you to make everything you can. As much as you can. Don't worry about anything else—we'll handle that part."
Margaret's voice came soft but strained. "John… what do you need all of that for?"
John turned to her, his expression steady, resolved.
"Because if they're raising an army," he said quietly, "then we're going to need one too."
The room went still.
"Not soldiers," John added. "People. Neighbors. Families. Anyone who's still standing." His jaw tightened. "And they're going to need something they can fight with."
Devon swallowed, nodding slowly now, fear transforming into purpose. "Okay," he said. "Okay. I can do that."
Alexander watched it all unfold—the refusal, the redirection, the way John had anchored Devon instead of letting him spiral.
When Alexander finally spoke, his voice was different.
"…Very well," he said.
John looked at him.
"…We move," Alexander said, his tone firm, already shifting into command. "I will—"
"—You're not coming either."
The words landed awkwardly. Not defiant. Not confrontational.
Just… stated.
The room blinked.
Alexander stared at John. "Excuse me?"
John rubbed the back of his neck once, a brief, almost sheepish gesture that didn't quite fit the weight of what he was saying. "I know that sounds bad. And trust me, I don't like saying it." He met Alexander's eyes again, steadier now. "But I need you somewhere else."
Alexander's expression hardened. "John, now is not the time to start assigning me—"
"There's an ally," John cut in, calm but insistent. "He's stuck. Literally. Caught in a pocket of time that's collapsing in on itself." He paused. "He's using the last of his life force to keep one of the rifts sealed."
The room went quiet again—this time sharper.
Harold's head snapped up. "That's—"
"—suicide," Alexander finished grimly.
John nodded once. "Yeah. That's what I figured."
Alexander took a step toward him. "And you're telling me this now because—"
"Because you're the only one who can reach him in time," John said simply. "And because he trusts you."
That stopped Alexander cold.
John hesitated, then added, almost casually, "Also… you know him."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. "I know a great many people."
John winced slightly. "Okay, yeah, but… this one's personal."
A beat.
Alexander's voice dropped. "Who?"
John exhaled, then said it plainly.
"Elias."
The name hit like a pressure wave.
Alexander's grip tightened on his staff, knuckles whitening. "Elias is dead."
John shook his head. "Not exactly. He's… holding on. Barely." He looked down for a second, then back up. "He was the Blue Grimoire holder before me."
The fire crackled loudly, as if reacting to the truth.
Margaret stared at John. "You knew that?"
John swallowed. "Not at first. But the grimoire did." A pause. "And now I do."
Alexander didn't speak for a long moment.
"…Where?" he asked finally.
John lifted his head, meeting Alexander's gaze without hesitation.
"The west side of Ashwood Park,
Once you enter the forest," John continued, voice steady, precise, "go about a hundred yards in. Maybe more—it shifts a little depending on who's walking it." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You'll see two trees that don't belong."
Harold frowned. "Don't belong how?"
"Too big," John said. "Too old. Like they were planted there before the rest of the forest decided to exist." His jaw tightened. "They stand side by side, twisted inward like they're holding something shut."
Alexander went very still.
"Between them," John finished, "is the pocket. That's where Elias is."
The fire popped again, sharp and loud.
Alexander closed his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opened them, something fierce and deeply personal burned there—recognition layered with old regret.
"…He always favored places no one wanted to look too closely at," Alexander murmured.
John nodded once. "He's been holding the rift alone. For a long time." A pause. "Longer than he should have."
Alexander straightened, resolve locking into place. "Then I don't have time to waste."
He turned toward the door, already moving.
John spoke again, stopping him just before he reached it. "Alexander."
He looked back.
"He won't leave unless you convince him," John said quietly. "He thinks letting go means everything falls apart."
Alexander's grip tightened on his staff. "Then I'll remind him that holding the line alone was never the point."
He opened the door. Cold air rushed in, carrying the distant hum of strained ley lines.
"I will bring him back," Alexander said—not a promise, but a vow.
Then he stepped out into the night.
The door closed behind him, leaving the cabin warmer—but heavier.
John exhaled slowly.
The pieces were moving now.
Ashwood Park. Fairview. The rifts.
Different fronts.
Same war.
And for the first time, John felt the full weight of what it meant to carry the Grimoires—not as a weapon, but as a responsibility already in motion.