The heroes descend beneath the Inn and find the original Aetharion, a sentient machine built from time, memory, and regret. To activate it and escape the Inn’s curse, one of them—Nikiforos—sacrifices himself, erasing his existence to fuel the machine. The others are hurled 400 years into the past, arriving in a raw, untamed world on the verge of transformation. Realizing they aren’t just visitors but catalysts of fate, the group splits up—one team investigating a town tied to the curse’s origin, the other following an ominous trail of black smoke. Unseen, ancient forces stir beneath the surface, watching, as the group begins rewriting history—even if it means becoming the myths they once feared.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Below the Inn…
They descend in silence—twelve feet, twenty, then sixty—into the womb of the Inn. The stairs change from wood to rusted iron, then to bone. Roots grow along the walls like veins, pulsing with dim, violet light.
Aetharion waits at the bottom.
It is no mere machine.
It is a conscience. A grief. A god that never learned how to die.
It is a conscience. A grief. A god that never learned how to die.
A thrum radiates from it: like a breath drawn across a harp made of time. Tubes, levers, and brass coils loop in impossible geometry, anchored in both stone and nothingness.
And in the middle of it all, glowing faintly—
a slot.
For a soul.
a slot.
For a soul.
The Final Truth
St. Amou approaches, trembling—not with fear, but with recognition.
“This isn’t a replica,” he says, voice breaking. “It’s the original. The one I tried to destroy.”
“But you didn’t,” mutters Gleg.
“You fed it.”
“You fed it.”
Nikiforos steps beside him, arms folded.
“We all did, in one way or another. That’s why it called to us. It doesn’t just show the past. It needs the past to live.”
Sir Kostanto: “Then we must deny it.”
General Pando’ Spiros: “Unless it’s already written in us. Look around… the murals upstairs. We’re part of history. This machine might not just send us back… it might have created us.”
A breathless silence falls.
Gogos, now half-shifting into multiple faces at once, speaks the unthinkable:
“So we go back not to change history…
We go back to become it.”
We go back to become it.”
The Sacrifice
Aetharion hums louder now. The slot pulses. Hungry.
One of them must stay.
One must bind the timeline.
One must be devoured.
One must bind the timeline.
One must be devoured.
And as the group forms a circle, no one speaks it aloud.
They just look—at one another. Measuring weight. Worth. Destiny.
They just look—at one another. Measuring weight. Worth. Destiny.
Then Nikiforos steps forward.
“I was the first to enter this story,” he says.
“Let me be the last to leave it.”
“Let me be the last to leave it.”
Gleg grabs his arm.
“You always knew, didn’t you?”
Nikiforos smiles sadly.
“I’ve known since I first heard it whisper.”
Nikiforos smiles sadly.
“I’ve known since I first heard it whisper.”
“Then…,” says St. Amou, voice breaking, “your name will be forgotten. You’ll never have been born.”
“Exactly,” Nikiforos says. “That’s the point.
Let the Inn feed on a man who never was.”
Let the Inn feed on a man who never was.”
And with that—
he steps into the light.
he steps into the light.
The machine screams.
Not in rage… but in relief.
The gears lock. The veins of the Inn shrink away.
And the Aetharion turns.
Not in rage… but in relief.
The gears lock. The veins of the Inn shrink away.
And the Aetharion turns.
Time Breaks
A tear in the world opens before the group.
Through it: a city of high spires, untainted rivers, and a sky untouched by plague or prophecy.
A world 400 years ago, before the hunger began.
Before the Inn.
Before them.
Before the Inn.
Before them.
The wind from the tear tastes like memory.
Gogos, with a half-smile:
“Let’s go make the past uncomfortable.”
They leap.
Nikiforos’s face lingers in the light a moment longer.
Then fades.
Then fades.
Echoes in the Inn
The Inn is still now. Not quiet—never truly quiet—but still.
The storm that battered its walls for days has vanished. In its place, a void. Time no longer ticks here. The fire no longer crackles, yet the coals glow with heat that never fades. The mugs on the tables—half-drunk—don’t gather dust, but neither do they empty.
The place is caught. Not in the present, not in the past.
But in remembrance.
But in remembrance.
The Room of Names
One door opens itself.
Inside is a small chamber with a wall of mirrors—none reflecting the present.
Each one shows a fragment. Not just of the eight who passed through the Aetharion, but versions of them… lives they never lived.
- Sir Patsir’ I.0., as a warmonger.
- Doc Pitoros, cured of his madness… but alone.
- Kostanto, a farmer instead of a knight.
- St. Amou, content, without genius… or guilt.
The reflections flicker. And then vanish.
One by one, the mirrors crack.
Behind the Bar
Only the ghost of Gleg remains here now.
Not Gleg himself—but a residual laugh, an echo of a spilled drink, a memory of a tale too good not to tell twice.
Not Gleg himself—but a residual laugh, an echo of a spilled drink, a memory of a tale too good not to tell twice.
Behind the bar, a door creaks open on its own.
Inside: a bottle of Crimson Oak Reserve, brewed only once every two centuries.
It is still sealed.
Inside: a bottle of Crimson Oak Reserve, brewed only once every two centuries.
It is still sealed.
Carved on the bottle’s neck is a line:
“For those who leave, and for those who stay.”
Below the Floorboards
Deep below, Aetharion sleeps.
But the sacrifice has not healed it—only fed it.
But the sacrifice has not healed it—only fed it.
Its coils remain tense.
Its hunger… paused, not ended.
Its hunger… paused, not ended.
And in the shadows behind it,
a new figure stirs.
a new figure stirs.
It is not Nikiforos.
But it wears something of his smile.
And it remembers everything.
But it wears something of his smile.
And it remembers everything.
Four hundred years before the stormy night at the Inn “Fantasy,” the realm was a land both raw and radiant—untamed, echoing with the thunder of nascent empires and forgotten gods not yet buried by time. The world is younger, yet harsher. Magic pulses through the veins of the earth like blood, not yet subdued by science or theology. Everything feels larger: the mountains stretch like spines of slumbering titans, the forests are thicker and darker, hiding creatures thought to be long extinct in the present, and the very air is charged with a kind of wild memory.
Cities are fewer but grander in ambition—towering marble spires of fledgling kingdoms trying to carve their legacy in the bones of the world. Warlords and priest-kings still clash for dominion, and alliances are as fleeting as the life of a torch in the rain. The world teeters on a precipice—between enlightenment and annihilation, between the old gods and the new.
The group emerges from the Aetharion’s blinding light into this forgotten era—disoriented, overwhelmed, but very much alive. They stand in what appears to be the remains of an old foundation—stonework half-buried by roots and time, yet not yet ruins. A banner flaps in the wind nearby: the crest of a realm none of them recognize, yet somehow feel an echo of familiarity.
Each of the eight looks around, taking in the surroundings—half in awe, half in dread. They realize, with slow creeping clarity, that they are not just observers of history. They have entered a time pregnant with consequence, where their presence could shift the delicate tapestry of fate.
And somewhere, not far, a presence stirs. Something… or someone… has noticed their arrival.
Would you like to focus on how they try to blend into this world, or follow the immediate signs that something is already watching them?
The group wastes no time. With the wind biting at their cloaks and the weight of history pressing down on their chests, they descend from the Aetharion’s landing point—a forgotten hillcrest overlooking a vast, sprawling valley teeming with life untouched by their era’s scars.
Far below, smoke rises from a town surrounded by palisades and wheat fields. Its architecture is crude but lively, filled with the clangor of blacksmiths, the chant of druids, and the echo of laughter—this is no ghost of civilization, but a beating heart of a world in flux.
Doc Pitoros, ever analytical, is the first to speak. “We must move quickly. If we are to change anything, we must first understand where—and when—we’ve truly landed.”
General Pando’ Spiros, already scanning the terrain like a battlefield, nods. “A war is coming. I can feel it in my bones. This time… may be less peaceful than we thought.”
Gogos slips a different face on, already mimicking the dialect of a nearby traveler. “Blending in won’t be the hard part,” he grins. “The hard part is deciding who we want to be in this story.”
But tension already brews.
St. Amou, silent until now, mutters, “This town… I know it. I saw it in Aetharion’s early visions. The Temple of the First Light is nearby… and if I’m right, this is the birthplace of the curse.”
Konstanto places a calm hand on his shoulder. “Then we have a mission. Perhaps this is why we were brought here. To stop it from ever beginning.”
Gaslord Nikoko is already trailing ahead, drawn to the strange black smoke twisting on the horizon—unnatural, thick with metallic scent. Gleg follows him with a grim frown. “I don’t trust the soil here. It’s too awake.”
They split up into two scouting groups:
- Group One: St. Amou, Konstanto, Gogos, and Doc Pitoros head to the town to investigate the Temple and learn from the locals.
- Group Two: Gleg, Gaslord Nikoko, Koump’aros, and General Pando’ follow the black smoke trail, heading toward the outskirts where rumors whisper of a fallen star—or something worse.
As they move, something watches from beneath the earth. A shadow older than the Inn… older than Aetharion… shifting, remembering.
And as the sun begins to set, the group does not yet realize: the events they set into motion now… will ripple forward across centuries—until it crashes into the very storm that first brought them together.
