It was the fourth morning since Prince Luceris returned.Orders still moved. Runes still held. But the men no longer asked who they served — only how to obey. And somewhere in the ranks, one watchman had begun to notice the silence between orders.
The walls of Valaris didn't hum like they used to.
The young watchman leaned against the spear rack in the northern barracks, adjusting the straps of his armor with nervous hands. The leather had warped — subtly, unfairly — like something old pretending to be new again. He'd sworn yesterday it had fit. He'd sworn he'd already done this.
But the mornings were starting to feel… copied.
Reused.
Behind him, the barracks stirred in predictable rhythm. Soldiers murmured old orders as they sharpened weapons and polished runes. Familiar routine. Familiar walls. But it all felt staged — like a play he had missed the beginning of.
He didn't recognize the lines anymore.
