The Map of Tomorrow

(Paige’s POV)

A haze of fear, pages scattering like ash. Darkness swallows every thought except the next breath.

Nowhere looks the same. Furniture once polished and placed with care has been pushed toward walls, out of the way. Across the bare floor stretch wide sheets - paper Alex took from a steward who could barely hold it. Every bit of space holds something: maps spread open, pages torn from account books, thoughts I wrote down while sitting quiet through long days.

Picture this, not one moment but something bigger unfolding. It lives in routines, choices, repeated. Trying to sketch it feels impossible right now. Lines never quite capture what’s inside.

“It’s impossible,” I breathe, my hands braced on the table, staring at a blank page. “They want a map of a kingdom? I can’t even sketch a coherent field rotation plan!”

Noah is beside me, not hovering, but a steady, solid presence. He’s rolling out the old, outdated survey map of the duchy. “You don’t need to draw borders, Paige. You need to show them connections.” He points to the blank area representing the northern mountains. “Here. Our bridge. It’s not just timber over a river. It’s a connection between the high pasture and the village. It’s food security. It’s community.”

A shadow moves across his cheek when I watch. Flickers of candle glow carve out hard lines, a quiet intensity held tight in his gaze. Not only does he guard me now - there’s planning behind those eyes, calculation woven into the moment.

“But how do I translate that to a kingdom?”

“The same way.” He takes a piece of charcoal and draws a small, rough bridge symbol on the map. “You show them the links that are broken. The roads that don’t exist between southern grain stores and northern mining towns. The royal taxes that drain villages dry without repairing their wells.” He meets my eyes. “You show them the waste. The stupidity. And then you show them a better path.”

No spells here. Just movement of things. Feel what others feel. Picture the realm like a breathing thing, its veins blocked, arms left out.

A flicker starts inside my head. Not some grand prediction, nothing like that. Instead, echoes come - Gareth’s rough voice naming troubles, Mara letting out those steady breaths when things get heavy.

I pick up the black stone. Southward, a ring forms beneath my hand. This spot holds every coin, each piece drawn inward, stacked high where rulers stay and dole it out without moving beyond these walls. Threads stretch outward from the center toward distant regions - narrow, winding paths that crawl like tired rivers. They carry too little, arrive late, robbed along the way

Fingers tucked under his elbows, Noah stares. A pause hangs. Then he says it - “What now?”

“So we create regional stewardships,” I say, my hand moving faster now. I draw smaller circles in key areas - the north, the western marches, the fertile south-east. “Local councils, made of lords and respected commoners - merchants, master farmers, engineers. They assess their own needs. They manage their own budgets for infrastructure, sent to the capital for oversight, not for permission.” I draw stronger, straighter lines from the central circle to the smaller ones. “The crown’s role isn’t to control, but to coordinate. To ensure one region isn’t starving while another buries surplus grain.”

A raised brow from Noah - yet a spark dances in his gaze. "Anarchy," they'll shout, he thinks aloud, "when common folk sit on royal councils." The word hangs, sharp but curious

“They’ll call it practical,” I counter, thinking of Gareth’s knowledge of timber, of Mara’s understanding of birthing schedules and food preservation. “Who better to decide on a new mill than the people who use it? The lords keep their titles, their lands, their prestige. But they share the work of rule. It makes them accountable.”

Now my hand moves quicker across the page - sketching duty, not terrain. Tangled threads form between regions instead of borders. Where food is stored together, circles mark the spot, keeping hunger at bay. Trade meets under square outlines, linking duchies through exchange. Curved strokes show paths for messengers sent by crown, smoother, swifter than today's scattered way.

“Justice,” Noah says quietly. He points to the map. “The King’s law is distant. In the north, we settled a dispute between herders last month with a council of elders. It was done in a day, and both sides accepted it.”

I nod, drawing a set of scales beside each regional circle. “Local magistrates for local disputes. Appeals can go to a central court. But not every stolen chicken needs a royal decree.”

Nighttime keeps us moving. Where he spots resistance before it forms, thinking steps ahead like chess, I tie pieces together - needs, fears, hopes - building something that holds. This way of working side by side? Not common. Full of motion.

Before dawn spreads across the glass, eyes fix on what stands built. Underfoot lies a patchwork of thoughts linked tight - wild sketches etched in black dust and stubborn will. Not clean. Not safe. Not pretend.

Funny how he almost respects them for it, Noah thinks out loud at last.

“They’ll be terrified of it,” I correct, wiping charcoal dust on my grey skirt. “Because it takes power from the center and gives it to the edges. To the people who actually know what they’re doing.”

He comes to stand behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders. “It’s brilliant, Paige. It’s not a vision from the gods. It’s a vision from the ground. That’s far more dangerous to them.”

Back against him, I melt into that steady heat - drained, yet buzzing like static after rain. "You’ll be there?" A pause. "When I show them all this tangle... you won’t step away?"

Up close, his lips touch my hair. Not a word about stepping back - just that he’ll stay right here, next to me. This path? It belongs to you, he says. The words must come from your mouth, not mine. Slowly, his hands guide me until we’re face to face. Tired circles under his eyes, yet something sharp and sure burns inside them. You already know what matters most - he whispers - you’ve always known. It's you who watched snow crash down the mountain. Not only that, it was your hands guiding stones into place across the river. Life taught you how much flour costs where winds bite hardest. Say what you know from standing there. Words about fate might be questioned. Truth from lived days? That stands

(Noah’s POV)

Crowds press closer today - thicker than before. News traveled fast, somehow. What started as stiff speeches now crackles like firelight. Not here to weigh guilt, these people. Watching her step toward what cannot be done.

A thin figure sits above, wrapped deep in heavy coats. Not asleep - his shut eyes watch just the same. Waiting, that one. Still.

Beside me, Paige sits still, skin like moonlight, breath even. Not a single page in sight - everything we need stays tucked inside her thoughts. What she holds instead? A wide, rigid case, built by Alex from leftover scraps of wood and worn leather.

Only when the Chancellor speaks does the quiet feel like a trap. The air waits, sharp and still.

Into the middle she steps, placing the portfolio low without rush. Not toward the King nor the nobles does her gaze turn. Between them it rests instead, aimed past people - toward something wider, unnamed. The air shifts.

“His Majesty asked for a map of a future,” she begins, her voice clear and surprisingly steady. “I cannot draw the future. No one can. But I can show you the faults in our present. And I can suggest tools to mend them.”

Here begins with her opening the folder. Not filled with elegant calligraphy on aged paper, instead messy sketches covered in black smudges. The top page rises slowly into view, angled toward those watching. A drawing shows the realm - roads choked, power stuck at the center.

“This is how we rule now.” She points to the thick central circle. “All power, all wealth, all decisions come from here. It travels slowly, if at all, to the edges.” Her finger traces the thin, meandering lines. “By the time a request for a new road from a northern village reaches the capital, the village has either built it themselves or given up. The system is slow. It is deaf. It is blind to anything but its own center.”

Some folks grumbled, though a few shifted on their feet like they knew it was true.

A single sheet settles into place before she reaches for the next. Twisting through local oversight roles, connections tighten, duties sharpen. The pattern emerges - not drawn but lived.

This isn’t about some fresh realm. Same old realm - just awake now. Her finger moves toward the little rings. Not top-down rule. Local choices shaped by those hands-on - mining chiefs, lead growers, trade heads. Decisions grow where work happens. Now they handle money close to home, responsible to the king yet free to act without his say-so. She looks around, her eyes pausing on some of the bolder young nobles. Fixing a cracked dam should not need approval from a distant throne. Here, you serve those who depend on you - actually help them, instead of merely ruling

Lord Prestwick is on his feet, face purple. “This is lunacy! You would dismantle the very order of the realm! Give power to cobblers and shepherds?”

Her eyes shift toward him, then - suddenly - I catch that sharpness again, like cold iron pulled from snow. "Let the ones who shoulder it daily hold the duty," she says, voice steady. "Have you ever timed sowing rye when frost still grips the high passes?" A pause. "Can you brace a crossing so floodwaters won’t tear it apart come thaw?" Her gaze holds. "Gareth, who tends sheep where I grew up - he understands both." . Eight families kept their way of life thanks to the path he made with what he knew. Would it make sense to dismiss him just because no title came at birth?

Chaos spills through the room. Shouts rise - some nodding, some furious. Noise piles on noise. Still, Paige stays planted, map clutched tight in her hands, lines wild, ideas bolder than silence.

A whisper like broken paper stops everyone mid-motion. Hush falls because he spoke

Silence falls across the room. Leaning in close, his gaze - bright with fever - locks onto Paige’s map. "It's the links," he says softly. Look at them once more, he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Pacing forward, Paige lifts the map toward him as she reaches the stand. Her finger moves across it, a hush in her voice meant only for his ears - yet silence carries every word to us. Stillness makes whispers loud.

Folks bring their harvests here, my lord. Alongside coins, they carry iron, wheat, whispers from distant towns. Reinvestment happens close to home. Those who walk the paths repair them themselves. The disputes are settled by the people who understand them. The crown…” She looks up at him. “The crown becomes the knot that ties the net together. The guarantor of fairness. The vision for the whole. Not the only hand on the tiller, but the steady wind in the sails.”

Stillness holds him there, eyes locked on the smudged marks. Not a word slips out for what feels like ages. A shallow gasp from the bed might decide everything. The king waits, muscles tight.

After that moment, a cough starts up. He can’t stop it once it begins.

Something sharp tears through him. Not just a tickle in the throat, but deep heaving spasms rattling bone and breath. His body folds forward against the seat's edge, arms locked tight across his ribs. From parted lips, one bright drop arcs into the air - then strikes cold floor, spreading like ink dropped in milk.

Cries break out. People move fast toward the scene. Nobles jump up at once. What was calm now spins wild.

A gasp ripples through the room when the King moves fast, reaching past everyone near him - his grip lands on Paige instead. Her wrist is caught mid-motion, fingers curled over the edge of the parchment. The old man's hands tremble slightly, knuckles pale, yet they clamp down like something desperate has taken hold.

Staring hard, his eyes show hurt plus a flicker of need. Not just ache, but a last push glows there. Her gaze catches it before he speaks.

A sound escapes him - red bubbles at his lips instead of words. Strength remains in how he holds on, unexpected from someone so still.

A flicker lives deep within his gaze, a weight that presses without sound. His grip speaks next, cold and sure, each fingertip telling its own quiet truth.

Finish it.

Without warning, his gaze drifts upward. The grip on her wrist loosens, fingers uncurling slowly. Down he sinks into the heavy chair, breath gone slack. Around him voices rise - shouts, then cries - as the Chancellor's voice cracks calling for healers.

Fallen now lies the crown's holder.

Falling apart at the top, that's where things stand now.

A lone figure, Paige waits at the foot of the throne, gripping a map streaked with the King's blood along one rim.