Kael couldn't stop laughing.

The sound echoed through the stable, a raw, disbelieving noise that scared the horses and made the barn cats scatter. His laughter wasn't the lighthearted kind of joy—it was the laughter of a man who'd clawed his way back from death and found the universe waiting to be mocked.

"Kael!" roared Drog, the stable master, stomping toward him. "If you've gone mad again, I'll toss you to the pigs, you hear me?"

Kael wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "Relax, old man. Just… appreciating life."

Drog's brows furrowed, his scarred face twisting. "Life? You don't have one to appreciate. Move! The Lord's horses don't clean themselves."

Kael grinned, grabbing a pitchfork and pretending to obey. But every movement felt strange—his hands were smaller, softer, the calluses from decades of war gone. His body felt light, awkwardly so. It wasn't the battle-hardened frame of a commander, but the lean build of a fifteen-year-old boy who hadn't yet been broken by destiny.

He forked hay into the stalls mechanically, mind spinning faster than his hands moved.

Twenty years.

He'd gone back two decades. Before the wars. Before the rise of the Empire. Before the gods had chosen him as their champion—and before they'd cursed him for defying them.

The memories hit like waves: blood, betrayal, laughter that turned to screams. Alren's calm face as he called it mercy. Kieran's trembling hands holding the Chrono Blade. Vessra's cold eyes.

And that sound.

The blade screaming. Time tearing.

He clenched the pitchfork so hard it cracked.

The Chrono Blade shattered, he thought. But it didn't kill me. It threw me back.

That meant one thing—time was no longer stable.

And if the gods thought they could bind him again to their grand, divine script…

Kael smirked. I'll rewrite it with blood and laughter.

---

By noon, Drog finally left him alone. Kael leaned against the stable wall, staring at the sunlight slanting through the gaps in the wood. Every sound, every scent felt too vivid—the creak of leather harnesses, the smell of hay and sweat, the buzz of flies. Life. Real, ugly life.

"Still alive, are you?"

The voice came from the stable door. A girl leaned there, arms crossed, brown hair tied messily behind her head. Her name flickered in Kael's memory—Lira, the cook's daughter. She used to sneak food for him when Drog forgot. She'd die at seventeen, he remembered, caught in a fire when the war reached Graycross.

"Barely," Kael said lightly. "You here to save me from starvation again?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself. I just wanted to make sure Drog didn't actually kill you this time."

Kael's grin softened, something unfamiliar tugging in his chest. She was still alive—unburned, unbroken, her voice unscarred by screams. He hadn't realized how much he missed hearing the living sound of her.

"Thanks for checking," he said sincerely. "But I think I'll manage."

"Sure," she said, skeptical. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Kael laughed again. "Something like that."

She frowned. "You're weird today."

He winked. "It's called personal growth."

She shook her head, muttering something about lunatics, and left. He watched her go, expression unreadable. Not this time, he thought. I won't let this world chew you up.

---

That night, after the stable lights went out and Drog's snoring echoed from his shack, Kael crept outside.

The moon hung low, fat and golden over the city. Graycross—before the wars—looked almost peaceful. No burned towers, no siege lines, no corpses lining the river. Just a sleepy town unaware that one of its stable boys would one day tear apart time itself.

He climbed onto the fence and looked toward the distant cathedral on the hill. He remembered dying there—his blood soaking those stones, his friends standing over him, the Chrono Blade screaming. He could almost feel the pulse of it even now.

"Where are you, old friend?" he murmured.

Something stirred in the air. A flicker. The faintest whisper—not a sound, but a vibration against his bones. A rhythm that shouldn't exist.

…tick… tick… tick…

Kael froze. His heart stuttered once, then steadied. The sound came from the direction of the cathedral ruins—though they wouldn't be ruins yet. Not for years.

He grinned. "Well, well. Looks like time isn't done with me after all."

---

By dawn, he had a plan—or the beginning of one. He needed to understand what had happened to the Chrono Blade, why it had chosen him, and how far its power still reached. And to do that, he needed allies. Or at least, pawns.

But first things first. He needed information.

And a decent sword.

He left the stables before sunrise, stealing one of Drog's cloaks and a half-rotten apple for the road. Graycross wasn't large, but it was full of secrets if you knew where to look. He remembered the undercity tunnels—smuggler routes and cult dens that had once supplied his army in the future. If he could find them now, maybe he could track the Chrono Blade's earliest echo.

He passed the baker's square just as merchants began setting up. The smell of bread twisted his stomach. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.

A little boy darted past him, clutching a loaf of stolen bread. The scene was familiar. Too familiar.

Two guards chased him, shouting curses. Kael's lips twitched.

History repeating.

This time, Kael stepped into their path and tripped the lead guard neatly. The man went down hard, face-first into the mud. The second tripped over him. The boy vanished into an alley.

The guards scrambled up, glaring murder.

Kael spread his arms. "You're welcome."

"Welcome for what?" one spat.

"For teaching you humility."

Their fists clenched, but Kael was already walking away, laughter bubbling under his breath.

---

Later, as he reached the old market square, he felt it again—that hum beneath his skin. Like invisible threads tugging at his soul. The sound of time breathing.

He turned slowly. In the crowd stood an old woman cloaked in black, her eyes like silver coins. She stared straight at him.

Kael met her gaze and smiled.

"Witch," he said under his breath. "Of course you'd find me first."

She lifted a hand. Her lips moved, though he couldn't hear her words. But one reached him all the same—like a whisper in his blood.

"Welcome back… Kael Vorrion."

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