The sky above them no longer looked like a sky.

It was a cracked mirror — fragments of light and darkness stitched together by something that wasn't quite time anymore. The winds carried whispers that weren't wind at all, but echoes of possibilities. Every now and then, one of those echoes spoke in Kael's voice.

They had made camp at the edge of a ruined oasis — a pool of silver water that refused to reflect anything real. Old trees twisted upward, petrified mid-motion, like they had tried to reach something before time froze them in place.

Jorah was asleep, snoring softly, one arm thrown over a half-eaten ration pack. Eira sat by the fire, tracing runes into the sand. Kael sat opposite her, silent, his eyes on the horizon that never stopped shifting.

Neither had spoken for an hour.

Finally, Eira said quietly, "You're thinking about her again."

Kael didn't need to ask who. Horizon's voice still echoed in his skull, the way she'd said you asked us to.

"I'm thinking about a lot of things," he said.

Eira looked up, her expression unreadable. "You're not good at lying."

Kael smirked faintly. "And you're not good at pretending to care."

She didn't rise to the bait. "Maybe not. But I do notice when someone carries guilt that isn't theirs."

He looked at her properly this time. Her black eyes caught the firelight — reflections of the stars that weren't really stars. There was something grounded about her, something almost human, even though she was literally the embodiment of balance.

"Guilt isn't something you can just drop," Kael said. "It grows roots."

Eira's voice softened. "Then maybe it's time to dig them up."

Kael let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You sound like a therapist with wings."

"Would you prefer a priest?" she asked.

"Gods, no," he muttered. "I've met priests. They're terrible at handling guilt. They just call it destiny."

Eira smiled faintly and turned her gaze toward the horizon. "You've changed."

"Since dying or since breakfast?"

"Both."

That earned a small chuckle from him. The kind that felt like dust leaving his lungs.

The silence that followed was softer, less brittle. The wind carried the faint hum of magic — the kind that filled old, forgotten places with memory. Kael reached down and ran his fingers through the sand. It shimmered faintly, showing flashes of the past — towers, laughter, battles. A city that had loved him once.

Eira watched quietly. "You built all this," she said. "Every ruin, every stone, every echo."

Kael nodded. "Every mistake, too."

"Do you ever wish you'd left it all behind?"

He hesitated. "No."

She tilted her head. "Why not?"

"Because then I'd forget why I'm still fighting." He leaned back against a rock, exhaling slowly. "They took everything from me. My trust, my faith, my future. The least I can do is take something back."

Eira frowned. "Revenge isn't balance."

"I'm not looking for balance."

"Then what?"

Kael looked up at the fractured sky. "Closure."

Eira studied him for a long moment, then said, "You can't find closure in destruction. You'll just make new ghosts."

Kael's gaze met hers. "Then at least they'll be mine."

Jorah groaned in his sleep and rolled over, muttering something about "sand demons" and "taxes." Kael's lips twitched.

Eira sighed. "He's loyal. In his own… chaotic way."

"He's annoying," Kael said.

"He keeps you human."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware I still qualified."

Eira leaned forward slightly. "You do more than you think."

He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. Instead, he drew a small circle in the dirt and let his magic hum faintly through it. For a moment, an image shimmered in the center — the faces of the Chronarchs, frozen in time, their betrayal replaying like a memory that refused to fade.

Eira's expression softened. "They really did believe they were saving you."

Kael's tone was quiet, distant. "They believed they were saving themselves."

"You could prove them wrong."

"I intend to," he said.

She nodded slowly. "Then start by surviving."

He looked at her, half amused. "That's the plan."

For a long time, neither spoke. The fire crackled, the silver pool rippled faintly, and the wind whispered through the petrified trees. It was strange — peaceful, even. A moment between storms.

Kael finally broke the silence. "Do you ever wonder what you were before I made you?"

Eira blinked. "You made me. Shouldn't you know?"

"I made a lot of things," Kael said with a wry smile. "Some of them turned out to be disasters. Others… surprised me."

She gave a small, teasing look. "Which am I?"

He smiled faintly. "The jury's still out."

Eira chuckled softly. "I think that's the nicest thing you've said to anyone all week."

Kael leaned back, eyes closing. "Don't get used to it."

The night deepened — or whatever passed for night in this fractured world. The sky shimmered, stars rearranging themselves like puzzle pieces searching for meaning.

Eira eventually stood and walked toward the pool. The reflection didn't show her. It showed Kael — countless versions of him, in countless worlds. Some were kings. Some were monsters. Some were just… tired.

She turned to him. "Do you see it too?"

Kael opened his eyes. "Always."

"Doesn't it scare you?"

"Constantly."

"Then why do you keep going?"

He looked at her with that familiar, maddening half-smile. "Because stopping isn't in my character arc."

She rolled her eyes, but there was warmth there now — quiet, platonic, steady. "You really are impossible."

"And yet, here you are," he said softly.

For a while, the only sound was the crackling fire. Kael's mind drifted between memory and regret, but for once, the weight of it didn't crush him. Maybe it was the stillness. Maybe it was Eira's presence — calm, grounding, unflinching.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was low, almost human. "You know… I used to think the worst part of betrayal was the pain."

Eira looked at him. "And now?"

"Now I think it's the silence afterward," Kael said. "The emptiness where trust used to be."

She said nothing. Just watched him — not with pity, but with understanding.

Kael smiled faintly. "You're not going to give me one of those balance lectures, are you?"

Eira shook her head. "No. I think you've earned your silence tonight."

He nodded slowly, then closed his eyes again. The firelight flickered across his face, softening the edges of a man who'd torn through time itself and still hadn't found peace.

When Eira finally turned back toward the pool, the reflections had changed again. This time, only one Kael looked back — the one sitting by the fire, eyes closed, breathing evenly. For the first time, he didn't look haunted.

She smiled faintly and whispered, "Maybe balance isn't something you find. Maybe it's something that finds you."

The fire burned lower. The stars above shifted once more. And for a few fragile hours, the god of broken time finally slept.

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