The tension with Theodore began not with a bang, but with a slow, insidious seepage, like water finding a hidden fault in a stone wall. Theodore, now a broad-shouldered and good-natured man of twenty-two, had followed his father into the cloth trade. He was successful in his own right, well-liked, and saw Lysander not as a mysterious genius, but as the strange, quiet boy he'd once helped sneak down Elm Street.
Their worlds had remained connected through their families and the shared history of their childhood street. Theodore would often stop by the Chronos Mercantile offices, his presence a blast of uncomplicated normalcy. He would clap Lysander on the back, tease him about his "empire of paper and numbers," and regale him with tales of his own more tangible dealings in silks and woolens.
Lysander tolerated it, even enjoyed it in a distant way. Theodore was a living link to a simpler time, a relic of a life unburdened by cosmic paradox. But he was also a variable Lysander had carelessly underestimated.
The problem was a ship. The Sea Serpent, a merchant vessel out of Bristol. In Lysander's original timeline, the Sea Serpent had foundered in a storm off the coast of Cornwall, its cargo of fine Portuguese wines and Moroccan leather lost to the deep. It was a minor tragedy, a footnote in the ledgers of maritime insurance.
In this new cycle, flush with capital and foresight, Lysander had acted. Through a series of shell companies and intermediaries, he had purchased a significant share of the Sea Serpent's cargo weeks before its fateful voyage. Then, citing "unconfirmed reports of unstable weather patterns" (a fiction based on his perfect memory of the storm), he had pressured the captain to delay the journey by three days.
The Sea Serpent missed the storm entirely. It arrived in London not as a wreck, but as a triumph, its holds intact, its goods fetching a premium price. It was one of Lysander's smaller, more discreet manipulations, a mere ripple in the economic pond. He thought nothing of it.
He discovered the consequence at a dinner at his parents' house. Theodore was there, his usual joviality replaced by a subdued, troubled air.
"A rough month, Theo?" Edmund asked, passing him a platter of roasted chicken.
Theodore sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You could say that. Lost a sizeable investment. That Bristol ship, the Sea Serpent. I had a contract to buy a large portion of its leather upon arrival. Was counting on it to fulfill an order for a new regiment's uniforms."
Lysander, who had been sipping his wine, froze. This was new. This had not happened before.
"What happened?" Clara asked, concerned.
"The damnedest thing," Theodore said, shaking his head. "The ship was delayed. By the time it arrived, another buyer had swept in and purchased the entire lot out from under me. Some anonymous consortium. I lost the contract, and my reputation took a hit. The regiment went to a competitor."
The anonymous consortium was, of course, Lysander. He had been so focused on the profit, on the elegant efficiency of avoiding a loss, that he had never considered the chain of causality he was disrupting. Theodore's success in his original timeline had been partially built on the reliable, if tragic, failure of others. By preventing that failure, Lysander had inadvertently caused one for his friend.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Theo," Lysander said, his voice carefully neutral.
Theodore looked at him, and for the first time, there was no warmth in his eyes, only a flicker of something hard and calculating. "Are you? You seem to have a knack for being on the right side of these market fluctuations, Lys. It's almost uncanny."
The comment hung in the air, laden with an unspoken accusation. It wasn't just about the money; it was about the pattern. Lysander's relentless, inexplicable success was starting to cast a shadow.
"Luck and good information," Lysander deflected, the old, hollow excuse feeling thinner than ever.
"Must be very good information," Theodore said, his tone flat. He turned back to Edmund, changing the subject, but the damage was done.
A few days later, the second crack appeared. Lysander was meeting with a shipbuilder, finalizing the design for a new, faster class of merchant vessel, a design he knew from the future would revolutionize trade. Theodore happened to be at the same coffee house, meeting with a supplier. As Lysander and the shipbuilder discussed the innovative hull shape, he saw Theodore watching them from across the room, his expression unreadable.
After the shipbuilder left, Theodore approached his table.
"A new venture, Lys?" he asked, his voice light, but his eyes serious.
"Always looking for an edge, Theo," Lysander replied, gesturing for him to sit.
Theodore remained standing. "That hull design… it's unlike anything I've seen. Radical. Risky. Most men wouldn't touch it. But you… you seem so certain." He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "It's the same certainty you had when we were boys and you led me straight to that barber-surgeon for your father. You knew he would be there. Just like you knew about the Sea Serpent."
Lysander felt a cold knot form in his stomach. He had been seen. Not the whole truth, but the outline of it. The silhouette of a man who was not playing the same game as everyone else.
"I make calculated risks," Lysander said, holding his friend's gaze.
"No," Theodore said softly, shaking his head. "This is different. It's like you're reading from a script the rest of us haven't been given." He straightened up, a sad, resigned look on his face. "Just be careful, Lys. People talk. And they don't like feeling like they're dancing to a tune only you can hear."
He walked away, leaving Lysander alone with the dawning, chilling realization of his own carelessness. He had been so focused on the grand architecture of his empire, on the cosmic puzzle of his loop, that he had forgotten the human bricks and mortar of his own life. He had saved a ship and in doing so, had sunk a friendship. The first crack in the foundation of his new life had appeared, and it was not a fixed point of tragedy like Cecily's death, but a variable of his own creation. The past was not a static thing to be navigated; it was a living, reactive entity. And it was beginning to push back.