They arrived at dusk.
The Temple of Reversal stood half-swallowed by the earth—its stone towers sunken and cracked, vines growing up its sides like nature's fingers trying to forget it. Time had not been kind here… or perhaps it had been too kind. The sky above shifted between orange and violet as if the sun itself couldn't decide if it was rising or setting.
Aethon held the glowing shard tightly in his palm. With every step closer, it pulsed warmer, its soft blue light licking his skin like whispers.
"This place..." Eira murmured. "It doesn't belong to now."
"No," Leloid said. "It belongs to memory."
They stood before a gate sealed with no lock, only a stone circle carved with a single rune: Ṯēqiel.
"I've seen that before," Leloid whispered. "It's a binding rune. Used in time spells. The Temple must be frozen—caught between forward and backward." "How do we enter?" Aethon asked.
Before anyone could speak, the shard pulsed again—this time violently.
Aethon's eyes flickered with ghost-light. The rune cracked. The gate shifted.
Not opened.
Not broken.
It rewound.
Stone flowed in reverse, uncrumbling, folding inward like a memory remembering itself. And with a thunderous sigh, the Temple breathed open.
Inside, time bled from the walls. Candles flickered in reverse. Footsteps echoed before they landed. Their voices, when they spoke, sounded like echoes of things yet to be said.
Eira stepped forward cautiously. "This is dangerous."
Leloid stayed close to Aethon. "Stick to the path. If we lose track of ourselves here, we could end up walking into our pasts… or someone else's."
They followed the hall into a vast chamber where a massive mural sprawled across the dome—half-faded, half-burning with magic.
It showed a representation of the Orb of Eternity, whole and radiant, being used in a ritual. A circle of mages. A beam of light, then a man dissolving.
Aethon's knees weakened.
"...That's me," he whispered.
Leloid turned away. "This is what I didn't want you to see."
Then came the sound—like boots scraping against bone.
They weren't alone.
A figure stepped from behind one of the stone pillars, cloaked in black, his hood shadowing everything but a mask made of broken shard glass. The temperature dropped. He didn't speak.
But Leloid's voice shook. "The Shard Reaper." Aethon stepped forward. "Are you with the Architect?" "No," came the answer, slow and dry. "I am with purpose."
"What do you want?"
"I came for the piece. But I see now…" the Reaper tilted his head, studying Aethon, "it belongs with you. Until the time comes."
Eira readied her staff. "What does that mean?"
"It means," the Reaper said, "I will not stop you from gathering the Orb. Because I know what must be done when the final moment arrives. And unlike your friend here"—his mask tilted toward Leloid—"I will not hesitate."
With that, the Reaper vanished—folded into the backwards flow of time like he was never there.
Leloid slumped against the wall.