"Time had broken.
And this time, he would be the one doing the breaking."
The pitchfork nearly took Kael's head off.
"Move your lazy bones!" bellowed Master Drog, waving the rusted thing like a knight going to war. "Horses don't shovel their own dung!"
Kael ducked, just barely suppressing the reflex to summon a death rune.
Instead, he grinned. "On it, Master Drog. With enthusiasm, even."
The stable master blinked. "You sick, boy?"
Kael whistled and grabbed a shovel. "Sick of not shoveling horse crap? Every damn day of my life!"
Drog narrowed his eyes. "You're mocking me."
Kael's grin grew. "Only a little."
An hour later, Kael sat on a fence post watching the sunrise, sweat clinging to his back. In the distance, Castle Aramore gleamed like a crown of gold.
In seven years, he would rule it.
Then lose it.
Then burn it.
Then die beneath it.
"Not this time," Kael muttered, cracking his knuckles.
He had knowledge no one else did. The faces of future traitors. The movements of armies. The secrets buried in vaults no one even remembered yet. And above all…
The shattered Chrono Blade, still humming in his soul like a sleeping god.
It had broken during the ritual. But something stuck. He could feel time bending around him—his magic wasn't gone. It had just… changed.
Unstable. Chaotic. Like him.
Perfect.
A shadow fell across the fence.
A boy stood there—gangly, nervous, snot-nosed. Twelve, maybe thirteen. "You're Kael, right? The one who punched the baker's son last week?"
Kael didn't look at him. "He insulted my shovel technique. It was personal."
The boy hesitated. "My name's Thorne. They said you were clever."
Kael turned. "And?"
"I want to help you."
Kael blinked. "Help me… do what?"
The kid leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Burn it all down."
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