The night was too still.
Rael moved through the camp, steps slow, deliberate. Every sound felt louder than it should have—the shifting of armor, the low crackle of dying campfires, the occasional murmur of sleepless soldiers.
He kept his head down, hands loose at his sides, his breathing controlled. No one stopped him.
No one questioned why their commander was slipping away under the cover of darkness.
Because to them, there was nothing strange about it.
Because the world hadn't decided it should be strange.
That thought unsettled him more than it should have.
The parchment hidden inside his sleeve felt heavier than it was, the words repeating in his mind like an itch he couldn't scratch.
"We need to talk. Before this war repeats again."
Someone else knew.
Someone outside his army.
And tonight, he was going to find them.
---
The World Was Shifting
The closer he got to the edge of the camp, the more wrong things felt.
Not in any obvious way.
No screams. No sudden cracks in reality.
Just… small things.
A soldier sat near a fire, sharpening his blade. Rael's gaze flicked down—the sword was broken, jagged at the tip.
But when he passed again a moment later, it was whole.
Two men whispered near a supply wagon.
"…He died, I swear it. I saw him fall."
"Then explain why he just walked past us."
Rael didn't stop.
Didn't react.
But his fingers curled into fists.
This wasn't just memory loss anymore.
The world was adjusting.
Smoothing over contradictions.
Fixing mistakes.
As if someone, somewhere, was erasing inconsistencies in a story they hadn't finished writing.
And no one else seemed to notice.
Except for him.
And the one who had sent the message.
---
A Meeting in the Dark
The watchtower stood where it always had.
Half-collapsed, forgotten by time, swallowed by vines. A ruin left to rot at the edge of the battlefield.
Rael had never been here before.
But somehow, he knew it had always been here.
The air was thick, damp with the scent of wet stone and old wood. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted—a lonely, echoing sound that did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.
He didn't wait long.
Footsteps.
A figure emerged from the shadows, moving with slow, measured confidence.
His armor was dark, dented in places, his sword strapped loosely at his side. A hood covered most of his face, but his eyes—his eyes locked onto Rael the moment he saw him.
And froze.
Rael's muscles tensed.
The man stared.
Then exhaled slowly.
"It's you."
Rael didn't move.
The man took another step closer—not hostile, not afraid.
But watching him like he was a puzzle just starting to make sense.
"I remember you," the man continued. "But last time… you weren't wearing that mask."
Rael's breath caught.
His pulse pounded against his ribs.
His mind raced.
What mask?
The mask of his face? His name? His existence?
Before he could respond, the man spoke again—this time, voice lower.
"How many times have we done this, Rael?"
The world lurched.
---
A History He Shouldn't Have
Rael didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Because suddenly, he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
The man studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he pulled back his hood.
His face was lined, not with age but with something deeper—something worn down by time itself. A scar ran from his temple to his jaw, cutting through his cheekbone, half-hidden by a short beard.
He looked… tired.
As if he had been carrying the weight of something for far too long.
"You don't remember, do you?"
Rael forced himself to speak. "Remember what?"
The man exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "That makes sense. You never do."
Rael's hands curled at his sides. Never do?
"I don't know you," he said evenly.
The man laughed. It was quiet, bitter. "Not this time, you don't."
A cold weight settled in Rael's chest.
He didn't like this.
Didn't like the way the world felt thinner all of a sudden.
Like if he pushed too hard, he might fall through.
"What do you mean?" he asked carefully.
The man met his gaze.
Then, softly—
"This war has happened before."
Rael swallowed. "That's impossible."
The man lifted a brow. "Is it?"
Rael's jaw clenched. "If it had, someone would remember."
The man tilted his head.
"I do."
The night felt colder.
Rael didn't know what to say.
Because if this man was telling the truth—if this war had played out before, over and over—
Then who was rewriting the script?
And worse…
What happened to the ones who remembered?
Rael exhaled slowly. "What do you want from me?"
The man didn't hesitate.
"I need you to survive this time."
---
The World Watching
Rael had heard many strange things in the past few days.
But this?
This was the worst one yet.
"This time," Rael echoed, voice flat.
The man nodded.
"And what happened last time?"
The man's jaw tightened.
"You died."
Rael stared.
His fingers twitched at his sides, but his expression remained unreadable. "And you expect me to believe that."
"I don't expect anything from you," the man said. "Belief doesn't change the truth."
Rael held his gaze.
A thousand thoughts ran through his mind.
The strange inconsistencies in the camp.
The way Bale spoke about past victories that Rael had no memory of.
The soldier on the battlefield who had vanished the moment he realized something was wrong.
The world was trying to erase its own mistakes.
And now, for the first time…
Rael was one of those mistakes.
His pulse pounded.
He had spent the past few days trying to figure out the rules of this world. Trying to navigate it, play along, survive.
But now—
Now he had a different question.
What happens when the world decides it doesn't need him anymore?
The man sighed.
"Look," he said, tone softer. "You don't have to believe me. But if you want to live, you have to listen."
Rael inhaled slowly.
Then, finally—
He nodded.
"Start talking."