Ash drifted through the air like snow, gray flakes fluttering down from the sky. To anyone else, it might've looked beautiful—peaceful, even. But to Riven, it smelled like burnt metal, old blood, and rotting dreams.
He pulled his scarf tighter around his face as he crouched behind a charred wall. A gust of wind howled through the skeletal remains of Old Veyra, kicking up soot and embers that danced in the dying light like restless spirits. The city above was still buzzing with tension after last week's riot—sirens wailed faintly in the distance, and drones buzzed overhead like angry flies.
"Just another day in paradise," he muttered dryly.
The rich called this area the Ashbelt. A no-man's-land of twisted steel and collapsed towers, abandoned after the Mana Collapse two decades ago. The poor just called it home.
For Riven, it was both.
His boots crunched over broken glass as he moved deeper into the ruins, careful to avoid unstable ground. The air was heavy with the scent of ozone and decay. Buildings stood like broken teeth, jagged silhouettes against a bruised sky. He passed a rusted sign buried beneath rubble that once read: "Veyra District Three - Cultural Archives."
Perfect.
He wasn't scavenging for food or tech scraps this time. He was chasing a whisper. A half-remembered rumor passed in hushed voices between gutter kids and junkers: that beneath Old Veyra, beyond the burnt-out records and spell-ravaged stone, lay a vault sealed before the Great Fragmenting. A place untouched by time.
Most dismissed it as fantasy. A tale told to distract starving minds.
Riven knew better.
He'd been dreaming of a door lately. A massive one, carved with spiraling symbols and glowing lines. It stood alone in the darkness, pulsing softly, and behind it—he always heard a voice.
A voice that knew his name.
His real name.
He stopped in front of what used to be a stairwell, now filled with debris. Climbing over a half-collapsed railing, he dropped into the lower level and activated a flickering mana torch. The blue glow illuminated soot-streaked walls and shattered display cases. Tattered scrolls lay scattered across the floor, brittle and blackened.
His gaze swept the room. There—partially hidden by a broken statue—was a stone archway, cracked but still intact. And at its center, carved into the ancient stone, was a symbol.
A single eye, encircled by a clockwork halo.
Riven's breath caught. He stepped closer, brushing ash from the glyph. It pulsed faintly under his touch. Old magic. Forbidden magic. Older than the Council. Older than even the legends whispered by the Archivists.
Beneath the eye were three words, etched in Old Tongue: "The past watches."
His heart pounded. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back. But desperation drowned out fear.
He found a circular depression in the stone, perfectly shaped for a human palm. It looked like a keyhole made of flesh and intent.
Riven hesitated. The glyph vibrated under his fingertips, alive.
"This is probably a terrible idea," he muttered.
Then, like always, he did it anyway.
He pressed his hand against the stone.
The glyph flared to life, burning gold against gray. The ground rumbled. With a deep, groaning sound, the wall before him shifted. Stone slid apart as if peeled open by invisible hands. Dust exploded into the air as a hidden staircase slowly revealed itself, descending into the earth like a coiled serpent awakening from slumber.
A rush of freezing air surged up to greet him. It smelled ancient—like the breath of something that had been sleeping far too long.
He stared into the darkness. Torchlight flickered, shadows twisting like they had minds of their own.
"Yup. Definitely cursed."
And yet, he descended.
Each step down sent a soft echo ahead of him. The walls were smooth, obsidian-black stone lined with glowing runes that flickered weakly to life as he passed. The temperature dropped sharply. His breath misted before him.
He passed ancient murals etched into the walls: scenes of fire raining from the skies, of scholars locked in chains, of a great tower bound in clockwork and flame.
Then the whispers started.
Not out loud. In his head. In his bones.
Not words—emotions. Regret. Guilt. Hunger.
By the time he reached the bottom, he was shivering. But it wasn't from the cold.
The stairway ended at a small chamber. Dome-shaped. Silent. At its center stood a sealed door unlike anything he'd ever seen. Circular, metallic, and smooth, without handle or hinges. Just a keyhole in the shape of the same eye.
As he stepped forward, the air thickened. Mana clung to his skin like oil.
And then—
[System Initiating…]
[Temporal Signature Detected: 97.3% Compatibility]
[User Identified: Riven Kale]
[Initiating Assimilation Protocol…]
Pain lanced through his skull. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head. His vision blurred as something pulled at him—no, tore at him—from inside.
Memories.
His mother's voice humming lullabies. His brother's laughter in the rain. The alley where he first learned to fight. The taste of warm bread after three days of starving.
Gone.
Burned away like pages from an old book.
In their place: visions.
A silver-eyed man walking through collapsing timelines. A tower made of ticking clocks, its bells screaming. A black sun rising over a battlefield of corpses. A girl crying in a language he didn't know, yet somehow understood. His name, whispered by a thousand voices.
[Assimilation Complete.]
[Welcome, Temporal Host.]
[Chrono Archive Bound to User.]
Riven collapsed forward, gasping for breath. His hands trembled. His head buzzed with static and fragments of forgotten languages.
When he looked up, the door was gone.
In its place, suspended in midair, was a swirling rift of silver and shadow. A tear in reality. Dust hung frozen mid-fall. His own heartbeat echoed in reverse, then forward again, distorting rhythmically like a broken clock.
Time was breaking.
He should've run.
Instead, he stepped closer.
The closer he got, the louder the whispers became. He didn't recognize the language—but the emotion behind them? He understood them intimately.
You are chosen.
You are late.
You are... again.
His fingers brushed the edge of the rift.
It felt cold. And infinite.
He took one last breath, unsure if he would ever breathe again.
And stepped through.
Darkness swallowed him whole.