He didn't know how it started—maybe a soldier said something, or someone whispered by the fire. But little by little, things began to make sense in his mind, like puzzle pieces fitting together.
That night, long after everyone else had fallen into uneasy sleep, Alex lay awake on his cot. He softly rubbed charcoal on a scrap of paper hidden under his blanket. He wasn't writing memories now. He was trying to figure out the time.
Wall Maria was already lost. That meant it was after the year 845. But the Scouts were still out on missions. So it wasn't the early part of the Rumbling story.
And Historia… she wasn't just a noble anymore. She was queen.
He wrote the word slowly and underlined it: Queen Historia.
That gave him a clear point. She became queen after Rod Reiss died—that was in 850, the same year Eren was kidnapped, Armin turned into a Titan, and they found the basement secret.
So…
"This must be 851, or maybe early 852," he whispered quietly.
Three years before the Rumbling. One year before Historia's secret pregnancy in the story. A cold feeling settled in his stomach.
He had arrived in a quiet time, after one war ended and before the next began. The years when Paradis was trying to catch up with new technology, when peace talks seemed impossible, and when Eren…
Alex stopped.
Eren.
He hadn't seen him. Not once. No Mikasa. No Armin. No Levi either.
If Eren was still in the city—or already planning behind the scenes—then Marley hadn't been attacked yet. War wasn't declared.
But it was coming. Fast.
He flipped the paper and started listing events from memory with rough dates:
📍 850 – Historia became Queen.
📍 850 – Returned to Shiganshina; basement secret found.
📍 851 – Paradis started exploring the coast.
📍 851–852 – Zeke started working with Paradis.
📍 853 – Historia got pregnant.
📍 854 – Eren attacked Liberio. The Rumbling began.
Earlier that night…
The paper trembled slightly in Historia's hand as she read the report again. Blood on straw. A dead MP. One refugee arrested.
Alex.
She didn't flinch when she heard his name. But something in her chest tightened—anger, confusion, something she didn't have a name for yet.
"They think he killed him," her advisor had said quietly. "But the details are... odd. The body fell wrong. No one saw a struggle."
They always looked for an easy story. An easy scapegoat.
She'd told them she was going to bed early. Too much court, too many whispers. Instead, she pulled on her cloak and slipped through a side corridor the servants used.
She knew the guards' routes by now. Knew which ones looked the other way if she stared long enough.
And she knew where they'd put a low-priority prisoner.
Now...
A faint scrape broke Alex's thoughts. Footsteps—quiet, careful. His heart started racing again. He shoved the paper back under his shirt and sat up straighter on the cot, breath tight.
The cell door creaked open.
At first, just a shadow. Then the faint scent of lavender and bread. Alex's stomach twisted.
"Historia?" he whispered.
She stepped into the light, her cloak damp from rain, her hood low. No guards. No escorts. Just her.
She shut the door behind her without a word.
"You shouldn't be here," Alex said, voice low. "If they catch you—"
"They won't." Her tone was steady, but her hands gripped the edge of her cloak too tightly. "I made sure."
She didn't move for a moment. Just looked at him—at the ropes burns on his wrists, the bruise along his jaw, the way he barely met her eyes.
"What happened?" she finally asked. "The reports don't make sense. They say you killed him."
Alex laughed under his breath, dry and bitter. "Yeah. That's what they're going with."
Her jaw tightened. "You didn't even resist?"
"What was I supposed to do?" he said. "There was blood everywhere. A dead MP. I was the only one standing."
She stepped closer. The cell felt smaller now.
"You didn't send a message. You didn't ask for help."
"How would I?" he said, meeting her gaze. "They didn't exactly hand me a pen and paper."
"You could've said something," she said. "To anyone. About what really happened."
Alex's voice dropped. "Would they have listened?"
Silence.
She looked away for a second, then back at him. Her voice was quieter now. "You should've told me."
"…I didn't think I mattered that much."
His voice was soft but final. Like he'd already accepted it—his place in the background, the expendable nobody. The fall guy.
Historia didn't speak.
The silence stretched long between them, until Alex finally looked up. "You want to know the rest?"
She nodded, barely.
Alex leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and steady now—like he'd rehearsed this in his head a hundred times.
"It was late. I was in the stable behind the barracks. Shoveling shit, like usual. And he showed up—half-drunk, stumbling, muttering to himself."
He swallowed, jaw working.
"I didn't even know his name. Just another uniform who liked to make me feel smaller. But that night… he was different. He looked at me like I'd insulted his whole bloodline. Called me a leech. Said I was 'polluting the Queen's image.'"
Historia flinched at that, but he didn't notice.
"Said I didn't know my place. That I was nothing. That everyone saw me following you around the camp like a damn puppy. That you—" His voice caught for a second. "That you deserved better."
Her hands clenched tighter.
"I tried to walk away," he continued. "Didn't raise my voice. Didn't insult him. I even said 'sir.' But he pulled his blade anyway. Waving it around, acting like he was righteous."
He let out a dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes.
"And then... he slipped. Dung, straw, maybe vomit—whatever it was. He went down screaming. Sword went clean through his thigh. Deep. I didn't move. I didn't touch him."
He hesitated, voice faltering on her name.
"I swear, Historia—I didn't even move."
He finally looked at her, really looked.
"When the others came, I was just standing there. Covered in blood. That was all they needed."