I am falling.
Not down. Inward.
Light fractures around us, shards of the Dawn Court spinning like broken glass. Malrik's hand clamps around mine, solid, anchoring, even as the floor drops out and the sky folds into itself.
"Stay with me," he says.
"I am," I say, and mean now, not always.
We land hard.
Stone cracks under my boots. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, but I don't scream. The air here tastes metallic, like lightning before a strike.
I push myself up.
We are standing in a throne room that should not exist.
It is the Dawn Court and not the Dawn Court. The ceiling is shattered, open to a sky full of drifting mirrors. Two thrones sit at the far end, not side by side, but facing each other across a fractured dais. One is Malrik's—black stone, familiar lines. The other is… incomplete. White, veined with cracks, half-formed, as if it never finished remembering itself.
The Stranger stands between them.
They did not fall. They are simply there, cloak unmoved, eyes bright.
"Welcome," they say. "The lattice prefers honesty without walls."
Malrik steps forward, power rippling off him in a low, dangerous hum. "You triggered this."
The Stranger tilts their head. "No. The truth did."
The air shudders.
A mirror above us splinters, raining light instead of glass.
I swallow. "If this place manifests intent, then stop circling. Say what you came to say."
The Stranger's gaze snaps to me. Sharp. Assessing.
"I wondered when you'd take control," they say. "Good. That matters."
"Answer," I say.
They exhale. The sound echoes too loudly, as if the room leans in to listen.
"I am the stabilizing anchor," they say. "Or what remains of it."
Malrik stiffens. "That's not possible. The anchor was destroyed."
"No," the Stranger says softly. "I was severed."
The word hits like a hammer.
The floor between the two thrones cracks wider. Something dark leaks up through the seam—not shadow, not quite. Memory.
I feel it press against my ribs.
I say, "Explain. Slowly. Clearly."
The Stranger nods once. "The original Twin Crown was not two rulers. It was one system. One will, expressed through balance. One anchor to drive power forward. One to absorb it. To stabilize."
The incomplete throne pulses faintly.
Malrik's voice is rough. "The histories say the second sovereign tried to seize control."
"They say many things," the Stranger replies. "Histories are written by whoever survives the silence."
A mirror swings down in front of Malrik.
It shows a younger king. Not Malrik—but close enough that my chest tightens. Same eyes. Same shoulders. He stands in a hall filled with shouting councilors. Fear bleeds off them in waves.
Malrik flinches. "That's… before my reign."
"Your predecessor," the Stranger says. "The last to bear the singular crown."
The image shifts.
A second figure stands beside the king. Same eyes. Different posture. Calmer. Steadier.
"I was there," the Stranger says. "Holding the weight he couldn't."
The image fractures as voices rise. Accusations. Words like war and expansion and conquest cut through the air.
Malrik clenches his fists. The room responds. Cracks spiderweb across the floor.
"You're saying the severance wasn't betrayal," I say. "It was desperation."
"Yes," the Stranger says. "The anchor bond was ripped apart to stop a war that would have burned every realm attached to this crown."
Malrik laughs once, sharp and humorless. "So they cut you away and called it murder."
"They had to make it final," the Stranger says. "Because if anyone believed balance could be restored, the war would have resumed."
The memory dissolves.
Silence slams down.
I look at Malrik. His jaw is tight, eyes dark with something like grief he has never named.
"You knew," I say quietly. "Some part of you knew."
He doesn't deny it. "I knew the crown felt wrong. Too heavy. Too… loud."
The Stranger watches him closely. "Because you've been carrying both halves alone."
"And ruling," Malrik snaps.
"And breaking the world in small ways," the Stranger replies.
The room reacts. A ripple runs through the floor, and the dark seam widens. Shadows crawl out—thin, twisting things that hiss and recoil from the light.
My stomach drops. "The fractures."
"Yes," the Stranger says. "My echoes. My failed attempts to hold what was stripped from me."
Malrik turns on them. "You unleashed them."
"I leaked," they correct. "Every time a singular bond neared completion, I felt myself thinning. Being erased. I tried to interfere."
I remember the shadow watching me. Not attacking. Waiting.
"You weren't trying to kill me," I say.
"No," the Stranger says, and for the first time, something like regret bleeds into their voice. "I was trying to survive."
The shadows recoil as I step forward.
"And if Malrik and I seal the bond as it is," I say, "you disappear."
"Yes."
"And the fractures keep spreading," Malrik says slowly, "because the system remains unstable."
"Yes."
Malrik drags a hand through his hair. "So what. You want to take my throne?"
The Stranger shakes their head. "I don't want to rule."
The incomplete throne shudders.
"I want to be whole," they say. "I want the balance restored. The anchor reunited."
The lattice hum deepens, approval threading through the sound.
My heart pounds. "Reunited how."
The Stranger looks at me.
"Through you."
The words land like ice water.
"No," Malrik says instantly. "Absolutely not."
The room reacts to his denial. His reflection in the nearest mirror fractures, a thin crack running straight through the crown on his brow.
I stare at the Stranger. "You're saying I'm… what. A bridge."
"A third point," they say. "The crown changed. The lattice evolved. It no longer accepts old answers."
The shadows hiss louder, pressing closer, drawn to the tension.
Malrik steps in front of me. "You will not use her as a vessel."
"I won't use her," the Stranger says. "I need her consent. The trial demands it."
The lattice flares, bright enough to hurt.
Truth.
I inhale slowly. My thoughts race, sharp and cold.
"You said the Twin Crown was one will," I say. "Balance, not hierarchy."
"Yes."
"And the severance created these fractures."
"Yes."
"So restoring it fixes them."
"Yes."
Malrik's voice drops. "And what happens to my authority."
The Stranger meets his gaze without flinching. "It changes."
Silence.
The mirrors shift again, showing possible futures. A kingdom whole but unfamiliar. A throne room with three seats. Or none.
My head aches.
I look at Malrik. "Say it."
He doesn't want to. I see that. But he does.
"I don't know how to rule without absolute control," he says.
The words wound him. The room responds. The crack in his reflection deepens, but does not shatter.
I turn to the Stranger. "And you. Say yours."
They hesitate. Just a breath.
"I am afraid," they say, "that if I am restored, I will remember the pain too clearly. And that balance will demand sacrifices I no longer want to make."
The shadows pause, trembling.
I close my eyes.
This is the choice.
Singular power. Familiar. Stable on the surface. Cracked beneath.
Divided rule. Old balance. Old wounds.
Or—
I open my eyes.
"Why are there only two models," I ask, "when the lattice itself has changed."
Both of them look at me.
I step into the center of the dais. The floor hums under my feet.
"The crown rewrote itself when it bound to me," I say. "It adapted."
The Stranger's eyes widen slightly.
"I'm not an anchor," I continue. "I'm not a ruler. I'm a variable."
Malrik's breath catches. "What are you saying."
"I'm saying," I say slowly, "that the choice isn't between you or them. Or between one crown or two."
The lattice surges, light spiraling upward.
"It's whether we let the past decide the future," I finish, "or whether we build something that never existed."
The shadows recoil sharply, as if sensing threat or hope—I can't tell which.
The Stranger's voice is almost a whisper. "A third option."
Malrik looks at me like he's seeing me for the first time.
The lattice roars.
The thrones begin to shift.
And the trial leans forward, waiting to see what I will choose.