The next blow came from someone Alisha never expected to doubt her.
Rowan.
He stood in the archives, surrounded by shattered tablets and burned records—ancient texts that had rewritten themselves after the Eclipse realigned.
"The system is unstable," he said flatly. "Not collapsing—but evolving faster than we can predict."
"That was inevitable," Alisha replied.
"What wasn't inevitable," Rowan said, voice tight, "was you becoming the center of everything."
She froze.
"You're not just the heir anymore," he continued. "You're the axis. If you falter—"
"I know what happens," Alisha cut in.
"No," Rowan snapped. "You know what might happen. But history is full of rulers who thought intention was enough."
The words stung because they came from fear, not malice.
"You taught me balance wasn't static," Alisha said. "You taught me systems must adapt or rot."
"Yes," Rowan replied. "But I never meant you should carry it alone."
She exhaled slowly.
"That's the cost of change," she said. "Someone has to stand where the pressure converges."
Rowan looked at her—really looked at her—and his voice softened.
"You've stopped asking for help."
Alisha didn't deny it.
"Because every time I do," she said, "someone pays for standing too close."
The Eclipse stirred again—not in warning, but in sorrow.
Rowan bowed his head.
"I'm afraid," he admitted. "Not of what you'll become—but of what it will take from you."
Alisha reached out, placing a hand over his.
"So am I," she whispered.