The hallway outside Aleric's room smelled faintly of crushed mint and glowing ink. Enchanted ward-lights hummed overhead, casting long, quiet shadows down the white-tiled corridor.
Rowan stood at the far end, back straight, gaze unfocused. He looked like Elias Corrin—young, clean-cut, shoulders relaxed—but the disguise was only skin deep. Taran leaned against the wall near the room's door, watching him.
"You've barely spoken since we got here," Taran said gently.
"I've been thinking," Rowan replied. "And hiding."
He stepped away from the wall and approached slowly. Taran said nothing as Rowan reached into the folds of his cloak, touching the old pendant he wore beneath—one he had enchanted himself months ago.
The old pendant was one he found and bought at a market stall; it allowed one to store a singular magic for later use. He had to recharge it with mana daily, but that was a small price to pay. In it he stored his own unique magic. An illusion spell that blocks the world outside from seeing inside the barrier.
A low shimmer rippled through the corridor. With a soft hiss, the illusion unraveled—like a painting scraped away by light. Elias Corrin dissolved, and Rowan Keir stood in his place.
Hair darker, face leaner, eyes deeper—not the careful fabrication of a public businessman, but the weary son of a fading legend. The young man who'd fallen through grief and guilt and landed in a world not his own.
Taran stiffened slightly. "So… that's the truth."
"I wasn't lying about who I am," Rowan said finally, voice low. "But I wasn't telling the whole truth either."
Taran didn't move. "Go on."
Rowan looked at the floor, then back up. "Elias Corrin… is me. Or rather, I was him. Back in another world. A place with no magic. No rifts. No Aetherstone."
Silence fell between them. A heartbeat passed. Then another.
"I used transformation magic to take the Elias form when I got here," Rowan said. "It was… convenient. Safe. Easier to pretend I was myself again than to admit I had no idea what I was. I thought if I could wear a mask long enough, I could rebuild something. Start over."
Taran's jaw tensed, but he didn't interrupt.
"I didn't lie to hurt anyone," Rowan continued. "Elias was my mask. He gave me room to breathe. I thought I could keep him between me and the world until I figured out what to do. But you… you saw through it. Even if you didn't know."
Taran folded his arms. "I knew you were different. That you spoke like someone who's fought another's war. But another world? That I didn't see coming."
Rowan's voice cracked. "It wasn't just a metaphor."
He leaned against the wall, breathing hard. "Back where I came from, I was a scientist. Worked in a lab. I watched the world burn me out—small betrayals, losses, gatekeeping, greed. Football was my only joy. I studied it obsessively. But even that got taken from me, piece by piece. I lived in a city that ground people down until they became shadows of themselves."
He looked up at Taran. "I didn't leave that world. I collapsed under it. I think I died. Maybe not in body—but in every way that matters. And then I woke up here… in Rowan's body. With his memories. His regrets. His guilt. I wasn't born into this world, Taran. I was rewritten into it."
Taran said nothing, but his jaw was tight.
"Into the body of someone equally broken," Rowan said, softer now. "Rowan Keir—son of a desperate father, survivor of magical war, crushed under legacy. His memories were still echoing in me. His regrets. I couldn't tell where he ended, and I began."
"And now?" Taran asked quietly.
"Now," Rowan exhaled, "I'm both."
He paced a few steps, hands trembling. "I've felt so much shame these past months. Not just because of the lie—but because I've been pretending to lead, to inspire, when I didn't know who I even was. And then you believed in me. You stood by me when I didn't even deserve it. You all did."
Taran's voice was low. "You're wrong about that."
"I'm not," Rowan insisted. "You trusted Elias. You helped Elias. But Elias was made of fear. Of silence. I let you carry the weight of this dream without ever showing you the real me. That's betrayal, Taran."
"No," Taran said, stepping forward. "That's trauma. That's survival."
He placed a firm hand on Rowan's shoulder. "You think I backed you because of how smooth you sounded in board meetings? I backed you because when you walked into Redhollow's training grounds, something in you lit up like it had roots in the dirt. You didn't have to say it. I saw it. You care like a fire that won't die."
Rowan looked at him, tears threatening again.
"I watched my father fall," he said, voice shaking. "And all I could think was, what if I'm too late again? What if everyone I love dies before I fix anything?"
Taran let the silence settle, heavy and sacred.
He looked away, then back. "You can't fix everything. But you can choose what you burn for."
Rowan collapsed into a seat against the wall. His hands covered his face. "I want to stay here. With him. Until I know he's safe."
Taran nodded. "You should. I'll handle the forge. The partnerships. The press. You stay with your family."
Rowan smiled through the ache in his chest. "You're the only reason any of this still stands."
Taran gave a crooked grin. "And don't you forget it."
They sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder, beneath the hum of the ward-light.
Two Days Later
The afternoon light slanted across the hospital bed, casting faint golden lines along Aleric's worn face. Machines pulsed softly behind him, monitors weaving magic and medicine into something barely holding together. But his eyes were clear now—tired, yes, but clear.
Rowan sat nearby, still in the chair he hadn't left since morning. He hadn't spoken much since Aleric first opened his eyes. He was afraid that if he did, the moment would slip away.
Aleric stirred, adjusting the pillow behind him. "You stayed."
"Of course I did," Rowan replied.
Aleric gave a quiet, bitter laugh. "I never wanted this life, you know. The academy. The burden. Your mother—she was the dreamer. She was the one who believed in all this."
Rowan's fingers curled against the armrest.
"I just wanted to coach. Teach a few kids how to defend their line. But after she passed… I didn't know how to stop. Didn't know how to let it go without letting her go, too."
"I know," Rowan said.
"No, you don't." Aleric looked away. "You were just a boy when it all started falling apart. And instead of dragging you into it, I tried to carry it myself."
Rowan stood. His voice cracked as he spoke. "Then why did you make me promise not to help? Why did you shut me out of the one place we both belonged?"
"Because I didn't want this life to break you the way it broke me."
Rowan stepped closer, anger simmering now beneath his grief. "So, your solution was to let me watch it all rot from the sidelines? To make me stand by while you bled out for a promise to a dead woman and a crumbling school?"
"You think I wanted this to happen?" Aleric snapped, his voice rising briefly before the strain forced him to stop.
Rowan's hands were shaking. "No. I think you were too proud to admit you couldn't do it alone. And too scared to let me try."
Aleric turned his head. "You don't understand what it means to fail your family. To fail their memory."
"Don't I?" Rowan's voice broke into a whisper. "Every day I've spent here—pretending not to care, pretending to be okay while watching you waste away—I've lived that failure."
He knelt beside the bed, eyes raw.
"You said I wasn't ready. That I shouldn't carry the weight. But if I don't, who will? Who else is left?"
Aleric didn't answer.
Rowan's breath hitched. The room suddenly felt too small.
Rowan wiped his eyes and looked up, breath catching as he spoke.
"You don't protect someone by leaving them behind. You protect them by letting them carry what they need to survive."
Aleric blinked. His lip trembled.
"I'm not asking for permission anymore," Rowan said, steady now. "You fought for this place. For her. And now I'll fight for you."
He stood and looked down at his father—the man who had sacrificed everything, but never learned how to ask for help.
"I swore I wouldn't abandon you," Rowan said quietly. "And I won't. Not even now."
The room was quiet again, except for the slow beep of healing magic and the distant murmur of life outside.
Aleric leaned back against the pillow, his face unreadable.
And in the silence that followed, he wondered—not for the first time—if his need to bear the burden alone had ever been noble… or if it had only ever been fear, dressed in the clothes of love.