The road to the Chronomancer's Tower was long, overgrown, and forgotten by most maps. Even in his past life, Kael had only discovered it through half-burned scrolls and desperate need. This time, however, he had the map etched into his mind.
They left before sunrise, slipping past the guards with the ease of familiarity. Kael led Thorne through the tangled woods east of Aramore, taking winding trails and listening to the quiet hum of magic that hung in the air like mist. The boy was nervous, constantly glancing over his shoulder.
"Tell me again," Thorne said, lowering his voice. "Why are we out here?"
"Because we need an edge," Kael replied, brushing a branch aside. "And this place has one."
"An edge against who?"
Kael smiled. "Everyone."
By midday, they reached the cliffs. Black stone rose like jagged teeth from the earth, and at the center of the ravine lay the tower—crooked, ancient, and half-buried in the hill. Its stone was mottled with moss and time. The structure shimmered faintly as though struggling to stay in one time.
"It's broken," Thorne whispered. "Like… it's not all here."
Kael nodded. "It's here. Just not all at once."
They approached slowly. Magic clung to the stones like spiderwebs. The entrance was guarded not by doors but by runes—twisting symbols that flickered between languages long dead.
Kael stepped forward.
The air grew cold. A hum vibrated through his bones.
"Blood or memory," the runes whispered in a tongue Kael hadn't heard in years.
He pricked his palm with a knife and let his blood fall onto the stone.
The runes pulsed. The tower opened.
Inside, the Chronomancer's Tower defied logic. Staircases bent sideways. Candles flickered with blue flame. Paintings aged and de-aged before their eyes.
Thorne stayed close, clutching his torch. "Kael, this place ain't right."
"Exactly," Kael said. "It's perfect."
At the heart of the tower was a dais surrounded by rotating rings of silver. Time-magic bled from every inch. Floating above the dais was the Codex of Temporal Knots—a book so old it seemed to warp the very space around it. The cover was a patchwork of leather and brass, constantly shifting.
Kael stepped forward, his eyes locked on the book.
"Are you sure this is safe?" Thorne asked.
"Not remotely."
The Codex resisted at first. Its glyphs lashed out, testing Kael's soul, probing the fractures in his timeline. But Kael had something most seekers did not: memory of what was to come.
He whispered names of futures that hadn't happened yet. Dates that were never recorded. The name of the emperor's unborn bastard.
The book shuddered.
Then it opened.
Time flooded him. Not just memory—Kael already had that—but potential. He saw glimpses of a thousand futures: some where he ruled, others where he died screaming, and one where he shattered the gods themselves.
It was overwhelming.
But Kael held on.
Because this time, he would win.
Back in Aramore, days passed. Kael returned with the Codex sealed in a mundane leather satchel, protected by illusory charms. He resumed his stable work and his careful manipulation of the castle's routine.
He began writing glyphs into the dirt behind the stables. Small ones at first—time anchors. Then larger ones that siphoned echoes of magic from the land itself.
Thorne helped him, still half-believing it was all a game.
"You're getting strange, Kael," he muttered one evening.
"I'm remembering," Kael replied. "That's all."
His nights were spent studying the Codex, learning to slow and quicken his perception of time. He learned how to predict footsteps seconds before they happened. He even reversed a broken horseshoe once, watching as the iron reformed beneath his touch.
But time always demanded a price.
He bled more often now. His vision sometimes split. And once, he aged five years in a second, before snapping back.
It was worth it.
Because Kael wasn't just planning revenge anymore.
He was planning ascendancy.
The next step was gaining access to the court.
Kael used a forged letter of recommendation from Duke Harridan—a senile noble with no heirs. The letter introduced "Kael Valen," a supposed squire of the House of Harridan, worthy of entrance to the Imperial Academy.
The guards barely glanced at it.
He was admitted.
The Academy was not a school. It was a forge. One that crafted killers, kings, and future traitors.
Kael walked its halls like a ghost among lions. His uniform was crisp, his eyes alert. He made no friends. He offered no threats.
But he listened.
There were three princes in the capital. Alric, the middle brother, was already scheming. Kael knew him well from before—arrogant, smart, and cruel. He was the most dangerous of the three.
Kael watched as Alric sparred with instructors, charmed tutors, and manipulated rivals into petty duels.
He smiled.
"Planning something?" Thorne asked one evening, having snuck into Kael's chambers under illusion.
Kael glanced toward the window. Below, Prince Alric strutted across the yard.
"Not yet," Kael said. "But I will."
He returned to the Codex that night, drawing a rune of foresight across the prince's name. The ink shimmered. Futures split.
In most of them, Alric died.
Kael just had to choose how.
The rest of the academy fell into place. Kael manipulated his instructors with ease, offering brilliant answers wrapped in humble tones. He helped noble children cheat on their exams in exchange for favors. He traded secrets like coin.
He began assembling his pieces: a disillusioned healer named Veyra, a half-giant with a gambling debt, a shadowmage who owed him her life.
And always, at the center, was Thorne.
"Why are you still helping me?" Thorne asked one night.
Kael looked up from a temporal equation.
"Because you matter."
It was a lie.
Thorne mattered only as long as he remained loyal.
But the best lies are the ones we half believe.
The future loomed.
War. Betrayal. Chaos.
Kael was ready.
Because now, the timeline was his to shape.
And fate?
Fate was already behind him.