In The Town and the Temple of the First Light, two groups of time-displaced characters converge on the mysterious town of Velmir, which should not exist in their timeline. Group One investigates the Temple of the First Light, uncovering a prophetic mural tied to a powerful, living machine called the Aetharion. Group Two follows black smoke to a forbidden industrial site—A.M. Foundry—and discovers echoes of their own pasts and futures, suggesting their timelines have been altered or merged.
Both groups reunite in Velmir at an inn that shouldn’t exist yet: The Fantasy Inn, their future home, now inexplicably present and pristine. Inside, strange anomalies reveal memories, identities, and potential betrayals. A chilling voice—the Crowned One—claims one of them lies, one remembers, and one doesn’t belong.
Guided into the Aetharion Archive, they meet The Artificer, a being outside time who reveals the truth: they are fragments of paradox, pulled together to undo a catastrophic event 400 years in the past—an event that corrupted the fabric of reality. A “knot” in time must be undone to prevent total annihilation across all timelines.
The group must now confront a grim mission: find the knot, decide whether to save or destroy it—and possibly choose between themselves.
Time is running out. The truth may cost everything.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Group One: The Town and the Temple of the First Light
St. Amou, Sir Konstanto, Gogos, and Doc Pitoros descend toward the settlement—its name, as they learn from a passing merchant, is Velmir. It is a thriving hub of trade and knowledge, a center for pilgrims drawn to the Temple of the First Light, said to house ancient relics and prophetic scrolls.
As they pass under the wooden archway of the main gate, they’re struck by the contrast between life’s simplicity and the dread they carry in their chests. Children play in the dust. Blacksmiths hammer rhythmically. The smell of fresh bread and wildflowers fills the air.
But St. Amou’s face remains pale. “This place should be dead,” he murmurs. “In our time, Velmir was a crater. Swallowed whole.”
The Investigation Begins
Gogos quickly adopts the guise of a traveling monk, gaining access to gossip and temple rumors. Doc Pitoros, with his formal tone and healer’s knowledge, earns trust among local scholars. Konstanto and St. Amou head directly to the Temple under the guise of noble protectors.
The Temple of the First Light is unlike anything they’ve seen. Carved from sunstone and oak, its great spire pierces the sky. Inside, a priestess named Elyra greets them. Young, radiant, and wary.
“You have the look of those burdened by time. Why do your eyes not match your youth?”
Konstanto exchanges a glance with St. Amou, who simply bows. “We seek knowledge,” he says. “Of things that once were… or will be.”
The Unveiling
The priestess leads them into the Chamber of Origins, a vaulted hall filled with murals older than even this era. One mural freezes them in place:
- Eight figures around a glowing machine.
- A crowned shadow looming behind them.
- Flames, stars, time spirals, and… the Inn itself drawn as a living creature.
Doc Pitoros’ voice shakes. “This… this was painted hundreds of years ago.”
“It is a prophecy,” Elyra says. “One forbidden to speak aloud. They say those who gaze too long into the mural… remember lives they never lived.”
Suddenly, St. Amou stumbles, clutching his head. He sees the machine again—the Aetharion—but not as it was. In his vision, it is a cradle… for something alive. A voice whispers to him, and it’s not the Crowned One’s:
“You are not the creator… You are the vessel.”
A Stranger Appears
As they help him out of the chamber, a cloaked figure steps forward from the shadows. His face hidden, his presence cold.
“You seek to rewrite fate,” he says. “But fate remembers. And it hates being forgotten.”
Konstanto draws his blade, but the stranger vanishes in smoke.
Outside, night begins to fall.
They regroup in the town square. Gogos returns with troubling news: a local legend speaks of a “Dark Harvest”, a period that begins at the next full moon—just two nights away—when “those marked by the stars vanish from Velmir forever.”
One of the villagers pointed to St. Amou’s cloak. “You wear the mark,” he whispered.
Group Two: The Trail of Black Smoke
General Pando’ Spiros, Gleg the Brewmaster, Gaslord Nikoko, and Koump’aros follow the black smoke winding into the distant hills, toward what looks like a forested industrial complex out of place in this era. The closer they get, the more the air turns acrid, thick with soot and a metallic tang that stings the lungs.
The forest around them wilts with each step, trees bent and blackened, birdsong long gone. A jagged building of iron and brass looms ahead—belching dark fumes from a vast pipework furnace. Welded over its gate is a sigil: “A.M. Foundry”.
Gleg squints. “This place shouldn’t exist. Ironworks of this scale? Not for another century…”
“Or maybe…” Nikoko mutters, eyes darkening, “…it already did. Before it was erased.”
Into the Machine-Womb
They infiltrate the factory, discovering it is mostly deserted. Inside, conveyor belts snake like veins through the walls. Tools sit idle beside machines that seem to breathe when no one’s looking. The four split cautiously, but remain in shouting range.
Nikoko drifts to a locked vault door. Its surface is glassy and etched with his own crest—one he never carved.
“Impossible,” he whispers. “This is… my legacy?”
He opens it. Inside is a massive version of the Aetharion Core—or something similar, but primal, incomplete, as if forged in dreams. Around it, whispers crawl up the walls, vibrating the metal. The same voices that once haunted St. Amou.
Whispers and Reactions
Koump’aros peers into a vat of liquid silver and sees a reflection not of himself, but of a younger Sir Patsir, bloodied and wide-eyed.
“You saw it too?” Nikoko asks.
“No,” Koump’aros lies. But something flickers behind his eyes.
“No,” Koump’aros lies. But something flickers behind his eyes.
Pando’ Spiros finds blueprints pinned to a wall—blueprints with his handwriting. Dates scratched out. As he traces the lines, gears begin to turn.
“They used us,” he mutters. “Before we ever were, we’d already been.”
Gleg, meanwhile, follows a familiar scent to a chamber lined with barrels—his own vintage ale. Bottles dated 403 years prior. His signature burned into the wood. The ale whispers too.
“The first batch… I never brewed it,” he breathes.
“Or maybe you did,” Nikoko answers, stepping beside him. “In another life. Or a future meant to loop.”
“Or maybe you did,” Nikoko answers, stepping beside him. “In another life. Or a future meant to loop.”
Suddenly, an alarm bell tolls, ringing from nowhere. The factory begins to tremble. The Core pulses.
A projection flashes midair—flickering static forms—eight cloaked figures surrounding a smaller version of the Aetharion. The Crowned Silhouette appears briefly… and stares directly at them.
Return and Reunion
They flee, smoke clawing at their heels. By dusk, they rejoin Group One in Velmir’s town square. The reunion is tense. Faces pale, breath short.
St. Amou: “You saw it too, didn’t you?”
Nikoko: “I touched it.”
Nikoko: “I touched it.”
They exchange stories—prophecies, painted memories, impossible factories, and the whispered name that binds it all: Aetharion.
The full moon rises.
A sudden hush falls over the town. All lights extinguish themselves, leaving only the Inn where they’ve found lodging—a wooden sign swaying gently.
But the Inn is… the same.
Their Inn.
From the future.
Standing here, centuries before it should exist.
The Inn Beyond Time
As the group approaches the Inn, a strange dissonance prickles their skin—like walking into the echo of a memory not yet made. Its sign creaks gently in the wind, the letters faint but unmistakable:
FANTASY
But not in ruin. Not weathered. It stands tall, pristine, as if freshly built.
Gleg halts at the foot of the steps.
“This… can’t be. I didn’t even buy the land yet. This is my inn. Before it ever was.”
The door opens on its own.
Inside, the familiar wooden beams, the round tables, the ale-stained bar—all are here. But everything glows slightly, like moonlight trapped beneath the floorboards. An ethereal warmth pulses through the walls. They step in cautiously, and the door shuts behind them with a deep thud, sealing them in.
Anomalies in the Familiar
Everything is exactly as they remember it—but also not.
- The portrait of Gleg behind the bar shows him older, greyer, regal—wearing a crown of hops and bronze.
- The hearth is lit, but the flames burn blue.
- There are voices upstairs. Their own, perhaps… or reflections of who they were, or might become.
- Behind the bar, mugs sit filled, untouched—but steaming, as if expecting their arrival.
St. Amou stares into one, eyes wide.
“This isn’t the past. Not quite. It’s… an anchoring. The Inn exists outside of time.”
Nikoko walks toward the backroom—the one that never opened in their time. The door now bears a carving:
“Aetharion Archive”
Echoes and Whispers
As they explore, each character begins to notice themselves in strange ways:
- Koump’aros finds a dusty coat hanging in the cloakroom—one that fits him perfectly, embroidered with a symbol he swears no one else should know.
- Doc Pitoros opens a journal in the library and sees schematics he was planning to design next year… already inked and annotated.
- Gaslord Nikoko hears voices from the cellar… his own voice… preaching to a crowd of shadowy figures.
In the dining hall, an invisible feast is laid out. When they sit, food appears—each person served a dish from their past. Some weep, some refuse to eat.
Gleg drinks.
“Of course we came back here. This place was always more than a building.”
“Of course we came back here. This place was always more than a building.”
A Message from the Walls
The fire crackles. Shadows shift.
From the ceiling, a voice descends—this time clearer than ever.
The Crowned One.
“So close now. You’ve crossed time… bled truths… but you haven’t faced what binds you.”
“One of you lies.”
“One of you remembers.”
“And one of you has never belonged.”
The room freezes. Eyes dart. Accusations hang unspoken.
“Find what was started. Finish what was hidden. Or the Inn… devours all.”
With that, the entire Inn shutters. Windows slam shut. The front door vanishes. Only the archive door glows now, humming with Aetharion’s power.
The Hearth and the Storm — Reactions at the End of Time
Silence holds the room like a fist.
The Crowned One’s final words echo in every mind, heavy with implication:
“One of you lies. One remembers. One has never belonged.”
They are trapped once again—this time in a place both ancient and unborn. And worse still: they are no longer sure who they are with.
Gleg the Brewmaster
Gleg slams his mug down, foam spilling.
“That’s enough riddles and spooks! I built this place with my own two hands—or… will build it. Or already did. Dammit!”
He paces.
“If someone here doesn’t belong, then speak up now. ‘Cause I swear by the hops of the elder ales, if any of you mess with my inn again…”
He paces.
“If someone here doesn’t belong, then speak up now. ‘Cause I swear by the hops of the elder ales, if any of you mess with my inn again…”
His threat trails off. His fists shake. Not with rage, but fear.
He knows something. But doesn’t know how he knows it.
He knows something. But doesn’t know how he knows it.
Doc Pitoros
Pitoros grips the leather-bound journal tightly, eyes scanning the impossible schematics.
“This isn’t just time travel. These are echoes of what was supposed to be. This place… it’s like a crystallized convergence of all timelines.”
He looks at each of them in turn.
“One of us not belonging—could mean from the wrong time, the wrong world, or… not real at all.”
He doesn’t say it, but he stares just a little too long at Nikoko.
Sir Konstanto
Konstanto steps forward, hand on sword hilt—but not drawn.
“Let us not turn blade on one another. We’ve come too far, shed too much blood. If we must doubt, let us do it with care.”
He looks around.
“But the voice is right. There’s a fracture among us. And I fear it is not new.”
He stares quietly at the painting of Gleg behind the bar. The crown. The pride.
He remembers the blue flames… and wonders if Gleg ever told them everything.
He remembers the blue flames… and wonders if Gleg ever told them everything.
St. Amou
St. Amou sits in silence at the hearth, hands shaking.
“The machine… whispered first to me. But I thought I was the only one. I thought it was my burden. My failure…”
He looks at Gleg and Nikiforos’ empty chair.
“You knew Aetharion’s voice too. You hid it. Why? Why?!”
No one answers. He stares into the fire like it might answer instead.
Gaslord Nikoko
Nikoko has retreated toward the cellar stairs, lips curled in half-suppressed fury—or fear.
“I didn’t lie. I didn’t hide. The voices called to many. You just couldn’t hear them.”
He turns his back to the others.
“You say one of us doesn’t belong? Maybe. But what if it’s not a ‘who’? What if it’s the idea we followed here? This machine. This cursed inn.”
A pause.
“Or maybe… it’s already inside one of us.”
Koump’aros
The coat around his shoulders looks older now. He tugs at the symbol stitched into it—one no one else seems to recognize.
“You know… I used to think I was a sidekick. A companion. Just the one who carries everyone else’s baggage.”
He looks up, eyes steel-hard.
“But maybe that was the lie.”
Gogos, the Man with a Hundred Faces
Gogos slowly removes one of his masks and sets it on the table. Beneath it, his real face is still obscured in shadow.
“I’ve worn many faces. But never one that truly belonged to me.”
“If there is a lie here… perhaps it’s mine. Or perhaps, like always, I’m just a mirror of someone else’s sins.”
No one speaks. The mask on the table watches them all.
General Pando’ Spiros
Pando leans against the door to the archive. He has not spoken until now.
“Enough whining. We were soldiers once. All of us. Even if you didn’t wear a uniform, you marched into battle—into time—with me.”
He pounds the door with a gauntlet.
“We face this machine together. Or we rot here like ghosts.”
He turns.
“But if someone tries to stop that—if someone is the lie—I’ll end them myself.”
The Aetharion Archive — The Artificer’s Revelation
The great wooden door of the Archive groans open, its hinges weeping like it had not moved in centuries. A thick veil of dust spills outward, followed by silence so complete it seems to drown even thought.
They step inside.
Books line the walls from floor to vaulted ceiling—leather-bound, spine-worn, humming with dormant power. Maps of starless skies and charts of forgotten epochs float midair. Lanterns flicker dimly, not from flame, but from memories.
And in the center, seated at a crooked writing desk that flickers between oak and obsidian, present and never-built, waits a figure wrapped in shadow-stained robes. A long staff rests across his lap—braided from metals no forge ever shaped.
He does not rise when he speaks.
His voice is not a sound. It is the feeling of being remembered by someone you have never met.
“Welcome, vessels of the Fractured Thread.”
The group tenses. Sir Konstanto half draws his sword, but it feels heavy here—as though reality itself frowns upon violence.
“I am called The Artificer. I am no man. Nor god. I am… a stitcher of the Loom. One of few. One of many. Bound by laws greater than your world. I watch. I remember. But I cannot interfere. Not truly. Not directly.”
Doc Pitoros steps forward, eyes wide.
“You see the futures?”
“I see all possible futures. And many that could have been. Some where you never came to this inn. Some where you never were born. And one…”
The room trembles.
“…where all of existence ends with a scream.”
They fall silent.
Gaslord Nikoko scoffs, but softly.
“So what are we, then? Chosen ones? Travelers? Sacrifices?”
The Artificer inclines his head slowly.
“You are… corrections. Splices cut from a corrupted weave. Echoes who should not have converged—yet did. A spark lit across dimensions… by a machine you helped build.”
All eyes go to St. Amou, who grips a nearby bookshelf for support.
“No… I didn’t mean—”
“You began the cycle. But you did not walk it alone.”
“The machine called to more than you.”
“The machine remembered you. All of you. From timelines that never should have met.”
“The machine called to more than you.”
“The machine remembered you. All of you. From timelines that never should have met.”
Koump’aros blinks.
“Then why us? Why pull us here? Why make us suffer?”
“Because there is a knot in the Loom. And only threads frayed by paradox may unravel it.”
The Mission Revealed
The Artificer stands at last, his form flickering with each step as if passing through countless versions of himself.
“Four hundred years ago, in this time you now walk, the world split.”
“A moment—small, unseen—shifted the balance of all futures.”
“Something… someone… will be born here who should not be.”
“Or something will be killed… that should not die.”
“Or something will be killed… that should not die.”
He lifts his staff. Images flood the air:
- A young child crowned in fire.
- A battlefield soaked in stars.
- An inn, this inn, floating in the void.
- A mirror, cracked, reflecting each of them, older… twisted.
“Your task is simple. Find the knot. Undo it. Or…”
He raises a hand. Every candle dies. The shadows whisper.
“…everything ends. Not just your world. All of them.”
Gogos steps forward, voice like ice.
“And if the knot is… one of us?”
The Artificer hesitates.
“…Then you must choose. You must always choose.”
The lanterns relight. The room is still again. The Artificer returns to his desk. The door opens behind them.
“You have little time. The knot tightens. The echo grows restless.”
“Go. And remember—some truths may only be found in lies.”
“Go. And remember—some truths may only be found in lies.”
