Threads of Fate
Diane's Perspective
Diane had always known how to push past pain.
Past exhaustion. Past doubt.
But the abyss was different.
It didn't just hurt—it lingered.
She felt it clinging to her skin even now, long after she had left Ren's chamber, long after the visions had faded into the recesses of her mind.
But she couldn't forget.
Wouldn't forget.
Tom.
The roulette wheel.
And the tribunal that had declared her guilty of something so unthinkable that she could barely wrap her mind around it.
She clenched her jaw, pushing forward.
She had no time for doubts.
No time for second-guessing.
She needed to find answers.
---
The Library of the Dead
The underground city loomed beneath her, a sprawling maze of ruins lost to time. This place—once a stronghold of knowledge—had been abandoned long before even the oldest records she could find.
Yet the books still remained.
Ancient. Untouched.
Waiting.
The silence here was wrong. It wasn't peaceful—it was suffocating. Every step echoed, swallowed by the weight of forgotten history.
Diane adjusted her grip on her sword. She didn't trust places like this.
She had dealt with old magic before. And old magic always had a price.
Ren's cryptic words echoed in her mind.
"The abyss never lies. It only ever shows what is already there."
She ignored the chill that ran down her spine.
If there were answers to be found, they would be here.
She stepped deeper into the library.
---
Echoes of the Past
The shelves stretched endlessly, filled with tomes bound in cracked leather and brittle parchment. Dust clung to everything like a second skin.
She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, searching.
Then—
A name caught her eye.
The Chrono Tribunal: Judgments Beyond Time.
Her pulse spiked.
She pulled the book free, carefully opening its worn cover. The pages crackled as she flipped through them, her breath catching as she read.
"There are crimes that cannot be undone. Wrongs so great that even time itself bends to erase them."
A tribunal.
A judgment.
Her vision.
Diane's fingers tightened around the book's edges.
She read on.
"Among the condemned, the most grievous offenders are those who have altered the flow of existence itself—erasing, remaking, rewriting that which should not be touched. These are not mere criminals. These are the lost."
Her stomach twisted.
She turned another page—
And froze.
A sketch.
A prisoner, bound in glowing chains.
The face was hers.
Diane's breath came in short, sharp gasps.
No.
This was a trick. A lie. A coincidence.
It had to be.
Yet…
Her fingers trembled as she traced the inked outline of the chains.
The same ones from her vision.
The same ones that had bound her in that other life.
The abyss had shown her this.
And it hadn't lied.
She shut the book with a snap.
She needed air.
She needed to think.
---
Shadows Watching
She turned, ready to leave—
And stopped.
Something had shifted in the room.
The torches along the walls flickered.
The silence thickened.
She wasn't alone.
Diane didn't hesitate. She drew her sword, the blade gleaming even in the dim light.
"Come out," she said.
Nothing.
She took a step forward—
And the shadows moved.
They peeled from the walls, twisting together, forming a shape—a figure, hooded, cloaked in writhing darkness.
It did not speak.
It simply watched.
Diane's grip on her sword tightened.
"You've been following me."
Still, silence.
The figure didn't breathe. Didn't move.
But she felt its presence.
It wasn't just watching.
It was waiting.
For what?
For her?
For the moment she believed?
Diane took a slow, measured breath.
She wasn't about to play its game.
"You want something?" she asked, her voice steady.
The figure finally moved. A whisper of fabric, a shift of shadow.
Then—
It spoke.
A voice that was not a voice.
"Tick. Tock."
The room shuddered.
The book in her hand burned hot.
Then—
The figure was gone.
Diane stood frozen, her breath shallow.
The torches flickered once—
And the silence returned.
But something had changed.
The weight of fate pressed down on her, heavier than before.
As if something—someone—was keeping count.
Watching.
Waiting.
For her next move.
---