The dawn spread softly over the canopy of the Elven Kingdom, bathing the silverwood trees in pale gold. Somewhere beneath their branches, deep within the royal palace of Ilyandir, Hector awoke.
His breath caught for a moment, as it always did after a night like that. Six lives. Six endings. Six threads cut clean by the indifferent hands of time. A farmer swallowed by drought. A merchant who died in a meaningless brawl. A child who wandered too far and never came home. A revolutionary hanged before his name mattered. A healer who failed one too many times. A scholar whose final lecture was forgotten even as it was spoken.
Six deaths.
And yet, Hector opened his eyes not with dread — but calm.
He was used to it now.
The Soulweave no longer overwhelmed him. It guided him. Each life left behind whispers, instincts, and clarity. Waking up six times a night had once been exhausting. Now, it felt like returning from a long meditation.
His room — made of pale carved oak, lined with glyphs of serenity and wisdom — was still. But the stillness didn't last long.
Footsteps.
Rapid.
Urgent.
The doors burst open, and the Elven Queen, stormed in, her robes fluttering like wings in the morning air.
"Hector," she said, breathless. "They're trying to take you away."
He blinked. "...Who?"
She stepped closer, knelt by his bed as if he were still a boy.
"The Empire. They've sent an invitation. A royal one. It came in the form of a sealed dream-scroll last night. The Empress's daughter wants to meet you."
He sat up slowly. His white hair shimmered in the dawnlight, ember eyes calm as dying stars.
"And what does she want?" he asked softly.
Elaria placed her hand over his.
"I don't know. But they said it was about peace. About... alliance."
Hector tilted his head. "Peace, from the people who stole our northern glades?"
She hesitated.
"They believe you might be the bridge. You are... not just ours, Hector. And they can feel it. The air around you hums with something even the ancients don't have names for."
He didn't smile. But he didn't frown either.
He'd dreamed of diplomats, of kings and queens, of shadow councils and failed alliances. He understood the politics more than most adults around him. He understood the cost of being known.
"It doesn't matter if I'm remembered," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "What matters is how I live."
She touched his face, her fingers trembling.
"You sound older than me."
"I am," he said, softly.
A silence passed.
Then she drew in a breath, standing.
"You don't have to go. We can refuse it. Keep you safe."
He looked down at his palm, where faint magic lingered like smoke from a fire. The weight of 1,800 souls brushed against him like a wind.
"I think... I've been waiting for this."
And far away, in a different palace of crimson stone, a princess unknowingly hummed in tune with him.
As if a string had been plucked across the world.
And the song was beginning again.