The long work does not feel heroic.
It feels endless.
⸻
It begins with lists.
Not proclamations.
Not visions.
Lists scratched into stone, bark, paper, memory.
What failed.
What broke.
What hurt the most.
Jason sits on the floor of the old council hall, surrounded by maps that no longer agree with one another. Routes overlap where they shouldn’t. Resources contradict old models. Names appear beside needs with no priority ranking to rescue him from choice.
“This would be easier,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes raw, “if someone would just tell us what mattered most.”
Zane stands in the doorway, the heir sleeping against his chest, heavier now in a way that has nothing to do with size.
“That’s the lie we’re done believing,” he says quietly.
⸻
The world does not heal all at once.
