The astrologer woke screaming.

  Not from pain.

  From certainty.

  Two guards nearly dropped him when he sat upright, eyes unfocused yet perfectly aware of where everything was — the door before anyone opened it, the physician before she spoke, the water before it was poured.

  “I’ve already drunk it,” he muttered.

  The cup was still empty.

  They summoned the King immediately.

  The infirmary smelled of herbs and quiet panic. Every attendant pretended calm, which meant none of them were calm at all. When the King entered, conversation died without command.

  The astrologer stared straight at him.

  Not respectfully.

  Not fearfully.

  Accurately.

  “You came five breaths earlier last time,” the man said.

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  The physician stiffened. “Your Majesty, he has not slept since—”

  “Leave us,” the King said.

  They did.

  The moment the door closed, the astrologer’s breathing steadied.

  “You’re not mad,” the King said.

  “No,” the man replied hoarsely. “Madness doesn’t repeat.”

  Silence settled.

  The crown grew heavy — not resisting, not warning. Listening.

  “What did you see?” the King asked.

  The astrologer swallowed. “Not the future.”

  He hesitated.

  “I saw the sky making corrections.”

  The King did not react outwardly.

  “The stars are… adjusting outcomes. Small things first. Footsteps. Words. Accidents that almost happen.” His fingers trembled. “They’re learning which path keeps existing.”

  “And you remember the others.”

  “Yes.” His voice cracked. “All of them.”

  The King studied him. “Why you?”

  The astrologer laughed weakly. “I don’t think they meant to leave a witness.”

  Outside, wind moved across the palace balconies without touching the banners.

  Inside, the crown tightened once — a single, deliberate pulse.

  The King understood.

  Observation had changed into experimentation.

  Not fate.

  Not prophecy.

  Iteration.

  “How long before it reaches something important?” he asked.

  The astrologer met his gaze.

  “It already did,” he whispered. “You.”

  For a moment, the world felt thin, like a page turned too many times.

  The King turned toward the window. The night sky waited beyond the stone, patient and immeasurable.

  “So the heavens are practicing,” he said softly.

  Behind him, the astrologer shook. “Practicing what?”

  The King’s reflection stared back from the glass, crown jagged against the dark.

  “Getting the answer they want.”

  And far above, unseen but undeniable, one star flickered — not dying, not dimming.

  Correcting.