The cross on the hero's sleeve now strangely shines.
Not with light, not with good, not with evil.
As if a memory that once he did not do what was required.
The air trembles beside him.
Not wind. Not breath.
The very fabric of reality quivers, responding to that which cannot be integrated.
Somewhere in the layers of history, a voice sounds.
Not God. Not human. Not dragon.
Just an echo:
— It could have been different.
And this echo touches everyone.
Not one.
Not a group.
Everyone.
Soldiers feel the emptiness where command logic should be.
Elders see signs that lead nowhere.
The dragon — if it can still be called that — notices that the world suddenly does not fit the shape it is used to.
The hero understands.
Not with words.
Not with reason.
Only with a feeling: what he has done — a small spark that breaks the cycle.
He walks.
Not there.
Not back.
He just walks.
Each step leaves a trace.
A trace that will later turn into legend.
Into a manuscript.
Into ash.
Into a weapon.
But now — it is simply the vibration of the world.
In one layer, someone whispers a prayer:
— Lord, let this not end as before.
In another — an engineer writes a formula that breaks protocol:
— This is wrong. But it works.
In a third — a child sings without words:
— La… la… la…
And all three layers, scattered and incompatible, fold together, forming a point from which someday the hero and the dragon will appear simultaneously.
Not for battle.
Not for history.
But simply because everything that has life inevitably becomes action.
The world quivers.
And in this quiver, a strange understanding is born:
— Not everything that is done must have a goal.
— Not every step is part of a plan.
— And not every fear is a reason for war.
The echo of the failure spreads through the layers,
filling them quietly, almost imperceptibly.
And only the hero feels it: something has changed forever.