Blood dripped from Kael Vorrion's lips as he knelt on the broken altar stone, the ruins of the battlefield smoldering around him. His armor, once radiant and lined with runes, was cracked and soaked in blood—his blood.
In front of him stood the six people he trusted most.
General Alren, his right hand man.
Priestess Liora, who once wept for his wounds.
The twins, Serik and Sera, bound by oath and blood.
High Mage Vessra, the woman who taught him magic.
And lastly—Kieran, his oldest friend. His brother in all but blood.
Kael laughed, bitter and breathless. "You could've just poisoned my drink like normal people."
Alren didn't flinch. "This is mercy. You were becoming too powerful."
"Too clever," muttered Vessra.
"Too unpredictable," added Sera, wiping her blade clean.
Kael spat at the ground. "That's rich coming from the ones who built this empire with me."
Kieran stepped forward, eyes soft with something that wasn't quite guilt. "We had no choice. The Chrono Blade—it showed us the future. A future where you destroy us all."
Kael's gaze sharpened. "So you listened to a sword instead of me?"
No answer. Just silence and regret that came too late.
Then he saw it—the Chrono Blade, pulsing in Kieran's hand like a living heart. Ancient, silver, and carved with moving gears that clicked with each breath of the dying wind.
It was the key to all this.
Kael's magic was fading. His strength already gone. He was dying.
But his will? Oh, that was still alive. And furious.
"You saw the future and thought killing me would stop it?" Kael chuckled, a low, raspy sound that echoed in the ruined cathedral. "You fools. That blade doesn't show the future. It creates it."
They hesitated.
Too late.
Kael slammed his hand on the broken altar, where the original seal had cracked. His blood soaked the ancient runes. The air shimmered.
The Chrono Blade screamed—yes, screamed—and then shattered in Kieran's hands.
And so did time.
---
Twenty Years Earlier
Kael jolted upright in a pile of hay, gasping.
He was… breathing.
He looked down—no blood, no cracked armor. Just a too-thin body in a too-small tunic. And hands. Small hands.
"Wha—"
A sharp, nasal voice barked from the stable entrance. "Kael! Wake up, you little rat! You're late for stable duty again!"
He blinked.
"Stable duty…?"
Then it hit him.
The smell of horse crap. The high-pitched voice of stable master Drog. The ache in his joints from sleeping on straw. The constant itch behind his left ear—caused by the flea-infested barn cat.
This was his childhood.
This was before the war.
Before the betrayals. Before the power. Before everything.
Kael stared at his reflection in a dirty water bucket. A fifteen-year-old stable boy stared back.
"…Oh, gods."
He grinned.
Then he laughed—loud, unhinged, free. Drog shouted something angry in the distance, but Kael barely heard it.
He'd died.
And now?
He was back.
Time had broken.
And this time, he would be the one doing the breaking.
---