For just a fraction of a second, the air beside the structure warped. Not light exactly. Not shadow either. It was as if reality itself had blinked out of sync, a thin seam shimmering where none should exist.
Alexander's grip tightened on his staff. "…So," he murmured. "You felt it too."
He stepped around the side of the cabin, boots silent against the grass. She was already there.
The wooden chair sat where it had no right to be—settled perfectly on the uneven ground, as if the world had adjusted itself to accommodate it. The woman sat calmly, tall even while seated, long blonde hair falling over her shoulders like pale silk. The cloth still covered her eyes, though faint scars traced beneath it, catching the light in subtle relief.
She hadn't moved. She didn't need to.
"The Veil adjusted," she said calmly. "Not in response to intrusion… but correction."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. "Correction implies error."
"Or change," she replied. Her head tilted slightly, as though listening to something far beyond the grove. "An unknown shift has occurred. A temporal displacement—not large, but significant enough to ripple across the ley lines."
Alexander's grip tightened on his staff. "You're saying time slipped."
"I'm saying it bent," she answered. "And it did not bend here by accident." Her chin angled faintly toward the cabin. "The boy's connection to the ley lines may be far greater than we assumed."
Alexander took a slow step closer. "You're certain this is because of him?"
For the first time, she hesitated.
"I asked myself the same question," she said quietly. "I doubted it. I wanted it to be something else."
Her fingers curled against the arm of the chair.
"Until the memories began."
Alexander's voice dropped, careful. "What memories?"
The woman's head lifted a fraction, as if the question itself had weight.
"New ones," she said. "That should not exist."
Alexander stilled.
"I remember seeing him," she continued softly. "Not as he is now—but as he will be. Standing where he has never stood before. Speaking words he has not yet learned." Her fingers tightened again, knuckles pale against the carved wood. "I remember conversations that never happened. Choices he made that altered outcomes I once believed were fixed."
Alexander felt a chill crawl up his spine. "Visions?"
"No," she said immediately. "Memories."
She turned her covered eyes toward him, unerringly. "They don't arrive like prophecy. They arrive the way your own past does—complete, anchored, unquestionable. I remember him asking me questions. I remember answering them." A pause. "I remember watching him walk away."
Alexander swallowed. "But you've never met him before the grove."
"Not in this version of events," she replied.
The air around them seemed to tighten, the ley lines humming just beneath the surface like a held breath.
"My past did not disappear," she went on. "It exists alongside these new recollections. Two histories occupying the same space." Her voice lowered, almost troubled now. "That should be impossible."
Alexander stared at her. "Unless something reached backward."
"Or stepped forward too soon," she countered gently.
Silence stretched.
"You're saying his presence is rewriting what has already happened," Alexander said.
"I'm saying," she corrected, "that his existence is creating overlap—points where the future is exerting pressure on the past." Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "I have never experienced uncertainty in my own memory before."
She inhaled slowly—unnecessary, but deliberate—then added, quieter now, "There is… another possibility."
Alexander didn't move. "Say it."
"Astagoth," she said.
The name seemed to press against the grove, the ley lines responding with a faint, uneasy tremor.
"The Veil is already thin," she continued. "Thinner than it has any right to be. His presence—his attention—does not obey linear constraints. Where he presses, the fabric bends. Where it bends long enough…" Her head tilted slightly. "Time does not tear. It smears."
Alexander's jaw tightened. "So this could be him reaching through."
"Yes," she said. "Or reacting." A pause. "Or being drawn."
She folded her hands in her lap, the chair creaking softly beneath her. "For a while, I believed the overlap was solely the boy's doing. That he had stepped too far ahead of himself." Her voice hardened just a fraction. "Now I am certain it is more complicated than that."
"Because of the new memories," Alexander said.
"Because of which memories," she corrected. "Some of them do not center on him alone. Some include shadows where there should be none. Absences where choices once stood." Her lips pressed together. "That pattern is familiar."
Alexander exhaled through his nose. "Astagoth corrupts outcomes by proximity."
"Yes," she said. "And the boy corrupts inevitability by existence."
The air grew very still.
"Either force alone would be dangerous," she went on. "Together…" She shook her head once. "They have created interference."
She lifted her head slightly, as if listening to something far away—something only she could hear. When she spoke again, the calm she usually carried was gone, replaced by quiet urgency.
"Time has shifted," she said.
Alexander's breath caught. "Shifted… how?"
"The ratio is no longer holding," she replied. "This place was meant to exist outside the current—anchored and insulated. One day here for one minute beyond the Veil." Her fingers curled tighter together. "That balance has been compromised."
Alexander straightened. "Compromised by how much?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Then, softly: "For every day that passes here… two days pass in the world outside."
The words landed like a blow.
"That's—" Alexander started, then stopped. He did the calculation instantly, dread tightening his chest. "That means—"
"The time you thought you had," she finished, "is already gone."
The ley lines beneath them pulsed erratically now, no longer steady—out of rhythm, like a heart skipping beats.
"The interference has accelerated everything," she continued. "The overlap strained the boundary. Astagoth's presence widened the fracture. The boy's existence destabilized the timing." Her voice dropped. "The system compensated the only way it could."
Alexander's grip on his staff whitened. "By bleeding time outward."
"Yes."
Silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating.
Then she added, quietly but unmistakably, "The revenants have already begun their march."
Alexander's head snapped up. "Where?"
"Fairview," she said.
The name seemed to echo faintly, as if the world itself recoiled.
"They were not meant to reach it yet," she went on. "But the slip carried them forward. The attack has already been launched."
Alexander closed his eyes for a brief, dangerous second.
"How bad?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"Bad enough that the dead are no longer staying dead," she said. "Bad enough that the veil there is tearing from the inside." A pause. "Bad enough that if the boy remains unaware for too long—"
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't have to.
Alexander looked toward the cabin again, toward John—training, resting, believing time was still on their side.
"…Then we don't have ten days," he said quietly.
She shook her head once. "You never did."
The chair creaked softly as she leaned back, blindfold turned toward the dark treeline beyond the grove. Her fingers tightened once more in her lap, the wood of the chair giving a low, tired creak.
"We can't keep this from him," she said, and this time there was no softness in her voice—only certainty. "Not anymore."
Alexander didn't look away from the cabin. "He's not ready."
"He doesn't have the luxury of readiness," she replied. "And neither do we." Her head turned slightly toward him, blindfolded gaze sharp enough to cut. "There is a version of this path—one I remember all too clearly—where you delay. Where you protect him from the truth."
Alexander's jaw tightened. "And?"
"And that is the path where he learns too late," she said. "Where Fairview burns, where grief hardens into resentment, and where the boy stops listening to anyone but the grimoires." A pause, heavy. "That is the timeline where John turns against you."
The words settled like ash.
Alexander's grip on his staff trembled once before he forced it still. "You're asking me to light the fuse myself."
"I'm telling you the fuse is already burning," she answered. "You don't prevent the explosion by pretending it isn't there."
Silence stretched again, broken only by the distant crackle of the cabin's fire.
"You must tell him," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "At once. About Fairview. About the revenants. About the time slip." Her voice lowered, just a fraction. "But you must also anchor him."
Alexander finally turned back to her. "How?"
"Truth," she said simply. "And restraint. You tell him what is happening—but you do not let him act alone."
She leaned back in the chair, the tension in her posture easing just slightly. "He trusts you. That matters more than you realize."
Alexander exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment settling deep in his bones. "And if he refuses to wait?"
The woman was quiet for a moment, as if listening to something far away—threads of possibility shifting, tightening, unraveling.
"Then you guide him," she said at last. "You don't cage him. You don't command him. You walk beside him."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. "That may not be enough."
"It will have to be," she replied calmly. "Fate has bent in his favor this far—not because it chose him, but because he keeps choosing others over himself." Her head tilted slightly. "That is not something you can force. It is something you protect."
Alexander looked back toward the cabin again, toward the warm light spilling through the windows. Toward John—laughing earlier, training harder than anyone had asked him to, still believing the world could be held together if he just learned enough.
"And if he runs headlong into it anyway?" Alexander asked quietly.
Her lips curved into something sad, but resolute.
"Then you make sure he doesn't run alone," she said. "You give him context. Consequences. A hand on his shoulder when the weight gets too heavy." A pause. "And then… you let him decide."
The air seemed to still around them.
"He must choose his path," she continued. "Not because prophecy demands it. Not because the grimoires whisper it." Her voice softened. "But because it is his."
Alexander closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself.
"And if his choice is wrong?" he asked.
The woman did not answer immediately.
"When the time comes," she said finally, "there may no longer be a right one."
The chair creaked softly as she leaned forward again, blindfold turned toward him with unsettling precision.
"But if you deny him the choice," she added, "that is the only future I know for certain."
The ley lines pulsed once—slow, deliberate.
Alexander opened his eyes.
"…Then I'll guide him," he said.
The woman inclined her head in acknowledgment.
The woman didn't stand. She didn't rise from the chair.
She simply… wasn't there anymore.
One blink— and the space she occupied was empty. No shimmer. No sound. Even the wooden chair was gone, as if it had never pressed into the grass at all.
The grove exhaled.
Alexander stood alone, the ley lines beneath his feet slowly settling back into a wary, uneven hum. He stared at the spot for a long moment, then let out a long, tired sigh—one that carried the weight of centuries and choices he never wanted to make again.
"So much for easing him into it," he muttered quietly.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if bracing himself, and turned back toward the cabin. Warm light spilled from the windows, laughter and clinking dishes drifting out into the night—normal sounds that suddenly felt fragile.
Alexander walked around the side of the cabin, each step deliberate, grounding. When he reached the front door, he paused, resting his palm briefly against the wood.
Inside, John laughed again—something Devon said, probably. Harold's deeper voice followed, tired but alive.
Alexander closed his eyes for just a heartbeat.
Then he opened the door and stepped inside.