Among all the lessons whispered through lecture halls, battlefields, and dying breaths, one remained the most consistent, the most brutal:
Power does not come without sacrifice.
Every mage, every warrior, every forgotten scholar who passed through Hector's dreams had echoed it in some form or another. They had paid for their wisdom with blood, time, memories, and things far more intimate. And now, Hector had done the same.
He had sacrificed everything he had gathered over the past five years — 1,830 souls — to strengthen the Imprints that shaped his core. He did not gain more spells. He did not become faster, or physically stronger. He did not even retain the powers those lives once offered him.
What he received instead... was space.
The Spiral within him had widened — no longer just whispering emotion and memory, but structuring it, building a foundation of self resilient enough to withstand the weight of others.
Thren's gift had changed as well. No longer was it simply the ability to witness a dream — now, each dream became a lived experience, an emotional truth felt bone-deep. He remembered how every one of those souls died.
And still, he let them go.
He offered up all that power so that, someday, he might stand stronger—not in magic, but in meaning.
---
The carriage ride had taken ten days.
Ten days of quiet. Ten days of wind through the leaves, of watching valleys roll into hills, then flatten again as they neared the Empire's borders. Ten days of dreams.
Hector had lived 120 lives more during the journey.
A street thief who died protecting a younger brother.
A castle cook who loved quietly, unnoticed.
A lonely scribe who bled to death after being caught in a protest he hadn't meant to join.
One hundred and twenty lives. One hundred and twenty names.
His body never changed during those nights, but his mind grew denser with memory, richer with pain and wonder. He had now lived 3,390 lives in total.
He had been farmers, kings, tyrants, lovers, martyrs, fools, poets, and children. He had been the betrayer and the betrayed. He had murdered. He had forgiven.
He had suffered and caused suffering. Loved and been hated.
And every morning, when he opened his ember-colored eyes, he remained Hector.
The boy who remembered everyone else.
---
The Empire's walls rose like a cathedral of spears.
Sharp angles, carved reliefs of war and dominion, statues of former generals and High Mages stood like watchful gods. The gates themselves were wrought iron, shaped like wings unfurling — elegant, but oppressive. Banners of crimson and black swayed in the heavy wind.
The carriage slowed.
He could feel them before he saw them.
Guards.
Wearing fine plate armor, gilded and polished to a mirror shine. Two at the gate's front. Four more flanking the entrance. Their faces, though trained in stoicism, betrayed a flicker of unease.
One stepped forward, a woman with a scar from her temple to her jaw. She bowed low.
"Welcome, Prince Hector. The Empress and her daughter await your arrival. We're honored."
The words were perfect.
The tone was warm.
The smile was practiced.
But Hector had lived too many lives.
He could feel the pulse of her fear beneath the charm. The tightness in her shoulder. The slight way she held her halberd closer than necessary. Her thoughts weren't hostile — but defensive. Guarded.
She's been told I'm dangerous, Hector thought. Or important enough to become dangerous.
He stepped down from the carriage with practiced grace. Not because he trained for it — but because he had been royalty before. He had worn dozens of crowns, even if none had been real.
His white hair shimmered in the high sun. The long Elven coat he wore fluttered slightly, woven of threads pulled from the Tree of Life's own leaves.
"Thank you," he said, bowing his head.
Politeness was its own blade.
The guards straightened, not sure how to respond to a boy who felt older than all of them.
---
The inner courtyard was a study in precision. Paved with ivory stone, trimmed with rose quartz, and lined with topiary trees sculpted into symbols of conquest.
Servants watched from windows.
Nobles passed in slow procession, some pretending not to notice him, others clearly observing him like one might a puzzle that had yet to prove itself useful.
Every face was a performance.
Masks.
But Hector had lived behind masks.
And more often, beneath them.
He could see the longing in the eyes of a younger noble girl who trailed her chaperone — her magic had likely been overlooked. He could sense the disdain from the tall duke near the fountain — a loyalist to the old war, who didn't believe in peace with elves.
He didn't resent them.
He understood them.
He'd been them.
---
A servant in deep crimson robes approached and bowed.
"This way, Prince Hector. The Empress and Her Highness await you in the Azure Hall."
He followed.
As they walked, Hector touched his mana core briefly. It was still hollow. Still rebuilding. But in its emptiness, there was resonance. He had no spells to call on, no power to wield. But he had a mind filled with truths.
He didn't need magic to walk into the lion's den.
He only needed to remember who he was.
And who they might be.
---
At the far end of the hall, massive twin doors carved with the Imperial Seal — a phoenix wreathed in flame and roses — stood open.
And beyond them: red silk draped from vaulted ceilings, paintings of past conquests, and the Empress herself — Seraphine, seated like a statue of blood and fire, her hair crimson as war, her eyes colder than iron.
Beside her, the girl.
Victoria.
She was not what he expected.
She didn't look at him as others did. She looked through him.
And in that first moment — when their eyes met — he felt it.
The hum.
Not in the world.
In himself.
The song.
The one he'd always remembered. The one no one ever sang to him.
And she was humming it.
He stopped.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he remembered.
All of it.
And so did she.
---
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was dense. Pregnant with something nameless.
Neither Hector nor Victoria spoke. They didn't need to.
The world narrowed to that space between them—two children shaped by gods, born into empires, carrying memories too vast for their age.
They didn't blink. They didn't smile.
But they remembered.
Not in words. Not in memories that could be recited like history. But in a way that lived deep in the bones.
As if they had once sung together in a place with no sound.
As if they had once held each other in the dark, before light had a name.
As if they were born for this moment.
And the Empress noticed.
Seraphine narrowed her gaze.
A flicker of something passed through her crimson eyes—not quite alarm, but recognition of a different kind. She was no fool. She had ruled too long and burned too many things to ever take such moments lightly.
They had seen each other.
As if they knew.
As if they had always known.
She leaned back slightly on her throne, eyes darting from her daughter to the white-haired boy.
Victoria still hadn't looked away.
Neither had Hector.
The Empress did not interrupt. Not yet. She was measuring them now. Observing. Testing the feel of the air, the weight of this encounter.
It was not the shy awe of young nobility. It was not the trembling nervousness of a girl meeting her suitor.
It was older than court.
Older than memory.
"I see," the Empress finally said, her voice low.
She didn't smile.
But her mind was already racing.
Something happened before they were born.
Something only they remember.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
Because in all her power, all her conquests, all her knowledge of angels and prophecy, Seraphine knew one thing:
Whatever this is... it wasn't made by her hand.
And that made it dangerous.
Very, very dangerous.