After a magical encounter in the Archive, a group of weary companions hears rumors of a strange child—Cael—born under mysterious stars. They find him, and to their shock, the child speaks with impossible clarity and memory. One member, Koump’aros, breaks under the pressure, attempting to kill Cael, but dies in the struggle. The child is saved and renamed Nikiforos, meaning “Victory.”
The group soon realizes a terrifying truth: this child grows into the man they once knew—Nikiforos, their silent ally from the beginning of their journey. They have created him by saving him. Time, it seems, is a loop.
Haunted by this paradox and the possibility that Nikiforos may be manipulating events across centuries, the companions set out for the Frozen Forge—a mysterious site in the north that may hold the key to time’s unraveling. But before they reach it, they are confronted by Chronoguards, deadly enforcers sent to erase time anomalies like them.
With swords drawn and magic ready, the battle begins—not just for survival, but for control of fate itself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Archive’s air still shimmered faintly with the magic of The Artificer’s presence. As the companions stepped once more into the twilight-lit streets beyond the Inn, something had changed—not in the world, but within them. Their minds were heavy with truth, but also dizzy with impossibility.
As they left the Archive, rumors echoed in the streets. Whispers of a child born under strange stars. A child with a voice like bells, one who spoke clearly even in infancy.
“That ain’t right,” muttered a baker.
“Not cursed, but… touched,” a seamstress replied.
“That babe ain’t ours. That babe’s fate itself.”
“Not cursed, but… touched,” a seamstress replied.
“That babe ain’t ours. That babe’s fate itself.”
The group, now eight in number after their painful losses, followed these whispers like bloodhounds in the fog.
A Chance Encounter
They found the child in a humble corner of the village—Cael, they said his name was. His mother, Liora, welcomed them warily. The child sat in her lap beneath a rustling olive tree, humming a tune far too old for someone so young.
As the heroes approached, the child turned his head and looked directly at them—as though he knew them.
Then he spoke.
Clear. Calm. Too calm.
Clear. Calm. Too calm.
“I remember your faces. Before the fire. Before the frost. Before the door.”
A shudder ran down their spines.
The child wasn’t just speaking—he was remembering.
The child wasn’t just speaking—he was remembering.
Madness of Koump’aros
Koump’aros, already fraying since their journey began, snapped.
He clutched the old dagger—the same one he had used in the betrayal that claimed Sir Patsir’s life—and his voice grew twisted and hoarse with rage:
“Newborns who speak with crystal voices?
Travels through time?
Librarians and machines that shape fate?!
ENOUGH! This madness ends now!”
Travels through time?
Librarians and machines that shape fate?!
ENOUGH! This madness ends now!”
Eyes wild, dagger raised, Koump’aros lunged toward the child.
“This cursed child is the knot!
And I… I will untie it—HIM—and all of our cursed fates!”
And I… I will untie it—HIM—and all of our cursed fates!”
A Final Fall
The group acted immediately.
- St. Amou raised a wall of sanctified light.
- Pitoros struck his staff to the ground, summoning binding roots.
- Gogos, shifting faces like pages turning in the wind, stepped in with silent grace.
Too late to stop the strike, but just in time to divert it.
The blade found no child—but turned on Koump’aros himself in the scuffle.
The blade found no child—but turned on Koump’aros himself in the scuffle.
He fell.
Silenced.
Madness gone with the final breath he never got to finish.
Silenced.
Madness gone with the final breath he never got to finish.
A terrible quiet fell over the clearing.
The Name That Echoed Through Time
Liora ran to the child, clutching him with tear-soaked hands.
“My dear child, you are safe… Fate chose you.
Yet men who forsake fate still try to feast upon your soul.
As if you bear the blame for their weakness…”
Yet men who forsake fate still try to feast upon your soul.
As if you bear the blame for their weakness…”
She rose, turning to the group with a sorrowful, grateful gaze.
“You saved him. I will never forget this.
But we cannot stay. We’ll vanish.
Change our names. Seek refuge far from this world.”
But we cannot stay. We’ll vanish.
Change our names. Seek refuge far from this world.”
She looked down at the child. His eyes, ancient and bright, looked back into hers.
“You are Cael no more…” she whispered.
“From now on… you are Nikiforos.
A name that means Victory.
A name this cursed world needs.”
“From now on… you are Nikiforos.
A name that means Victory.
A name this cursed world needs.”
The Group Reacts
At that moment, every member of the group froze.
The name hit them like a scream in a cathedral.
“Nikiforos…” whispered Gleg, his drink sloshing in a suddenly trembling hand.
“He stayed behind,” Pitoros murmured. “In the Inn. At the start. At the end…”
“We met him at the beginning…” added Sir Kostanto, voice thick with awe.
“But he was shaped by this… now. By us. This moment made him.”
“But he was shaped by this… now. By us. This moment made him.”
“A cycle,” said St. Amou darkly.
“A loop in time. We sealed it by saving him.”
“A loop in time. We sealed it by saving him.”
The Realization
The knot wasn’t just an object. It was a life.
Their trials, betrayals, and sacrifices had all fed into this moment.
They had saved Nikiforos, but in doing so, they had created him.
Their trials, betrayals, and sacrifices had all fed into this moment.
They had saved Nikiforos, but in doing so, they had created him.
“So the voice in the Inn…” whispered Gogos, “the man who watched but never acted… it was him. Cael. Who became Nikiforos. Who knew all along.”
And Yet, a New Path
Liora departed under cover of darkness with her son.
“We will go to the Wolf Fortress, far to the north.
Time forgets that place. Let it forget us, too.”
Time forgets that place. Let it forget us, too.”
She vanished into history, unaware of the fate her son would one day face.
The group was left shaken—one comrade lost to madness, another truth uncovered that cut deeper than any blade.
But the path forward remained.
Their mission was not over.
Ahead loomed the Frozen Forge, where the cursed machine Aetharion would one day be conceived.
But now they knew: they were not just trying to change the future…
They were already part of the past.
They were already part of the past.
Shall we follow them north, toward the Frozen Forge, where metal remembers fire—and time may yet bend again?
The dust had settled.
Koump’aros lay buried in the forest’s edge, his grave marked only with the edge of his own blade, driven into the earth like a warning.
The child—Cael, now named Nikiforos—was gone with his mother. Their wagon disappeared into the northern horizon, into the veiled lands of the Wolf Fortress. But their name remained like smoke in the companions’ lungs.
And so did the questions.
The Fracture of Understanding
Back in the town’s inn, the surviving seven gathered around a single flickering candle. Faces dimly lit, silence draped over them for a long time before anyone dared to speak.
Sir Kostanto stared into his empty mug.
“So… is that Nikiforos? Our Nikiforos? The one we left behind in the Inn? But how…?”
Gleg scratched at his scruffy beard, unusually quiet, until he finally spoke.
“The way he looked at us. He knew us. I’d swear it. As if the time we’ve lived hasn’t… happened yet.”
Pitoros shook his head.
“But then—how? If he’s the child here… and also the man back there… has this all happened before? Are we just repeating it?”
Gogos raised his voice softly.
“Or worse… are we fulfilling it?”
St. Amou’s voice, low and shaking, cut through them all.
“Koump’aros acted in madness. But perhaps the madness was seeded with truth.”
The fire crackled. A storm built in the sky outside. And yet, no one moved.
“But killing a child… with no evidence… that was never the answer,” muttered Sir Kostanto.
Pitoros nodded.
“No prophecy, no fear, no whispering voice could justify that.”
The Great Doubt
Was Nikiforos a victim of fate?
A tool?
Or a mastermind?
Could he have known the group would arrive 400 years in the past? Could he have engineered their journey through time?
Or was he simply the product of their own actions—a loop created by their choices, not their intentions?
“Maybe we’ve all been played,” whispered Gleg. “By the Inn. By the machine. By him. By ourselves.”
The Path Forward
The group could not stay. They had seen too much, tampered too deeply with the past. Now the thread tugged at them from behind—their own time called to them.
“We must go back,” St. Amou said finally. “To our time. To the Inn. To… him. If Nikiforos is there, we must speak to him.”
Gogos frowned.
“But how? We used the Aetharion… and it was consumed. Destroyed in the passage.”
Sir Kostanto leaned forward.
“Rumors. I’ve heard something since we arrived here—whispers from smiths and traders. Of a machine… buried deep in the ice.”
Pitoros added:
“They say it screams. It sings. Like a beast of iron remembering its dreams. They call it the—”
“Frozen Forge,” finished Gleg.
The Frozen Forge – Hope or Trap?
The rumors spoke of a cavern in the northern wastes, where metal formed itself, where steam hissed from walls as if the mountain breathed, and where strange blue energy sometimes flickered in the sky above like ghost-light.
“Could it be… this timeline’s Aetharion?” wondered St. Amou aloud. “Before I… made it?”
“Or,” said Gogos, “could it be him, building it all over again, guiding us into place?”
The Decision
The group had no choice now.
Their enemy—or their answer—waited not in this past…
…but beyond it.
…but beyond it.
If Nikiforos had grown into the man they once knew—if he existed still, in the Inn, alive and waiting—they had to reach him.
To ask him what he knew.
To ask him what he’d done.
To ask him who he really was.
To ask him what he’d done.
To ask him who he really was.
And to ask one terrible question…
Was he still one of them?
The March North Begins
As the snow began to fall, the eight cloaked themselves and set forth—toward the edge of known maps, to where the Frozen Forge waited beneath glaciers and forgotten stars.
Each step forward was colder than the last.
Each breath, more uncertain.
Each heartbeat, louder with the echo of a name they thought they understood.
Each breath, more uncertain.
Each heartbeat, louder with the echo of a name they thought they understood.
Nikiforos—not a man, not a myth, not yet a monster.
But perhaps… all of them at once.
But perhaps… all of them at once.
Shall we continue toward the Frozen Forge, where answers may come—along with truths they may wish they’d never uncovered?
The road to the Frozen Forge wound like a scar through the frostbitten wilderness, flanked by twisted pines and the distant echo of thunder. The seven remaining companions walked in a somber procession, their cloaks whipped by a merciless wind, their minds weighted with memory and uncertainty.
General Pando’ Spiros broke the silence first, voice gruff. “So… we protect the child, and he becomes Nikiforos. But then… was our Nikiforos protecting us, or watching us?”
“Perhaps both,” muttered Sir Kostanto, staring at the icy trail ahead. “He never spoke more than needed. A man holding his breath through time itself.”
Gogos, usually full of jests, was quieter now. “He said something to me once… when no one was listening. That the hardest part of time travel is knowing when to feel guilty.”
Doc Pitoros scratched his chin, “It means he remembered something we haven’t done yet. Which means we will do something. Or already have. Time has no patience for human guilt — it demands consequence.”
St. Amou, walking with his hood drawn low, whispered, “Aetharion connected us all in ways none of us understood… perhaps Nikiforos knew more than any of us, and carried that burden alone.”
Gleg the Brewmaster trudged in silence, staring at the flask in his hand. “I make drinks, not timelines,” he finally muttered. “But I know one thing — people who hold secrets that deep usually have no choice in the matter.”
Their reflections broke into silence again… until a sudden shift in the air made them all stop in their tracks.
Crkkrkrkkrkrrk…
The wind stilled. The trees stopped whispering. And from the mist ahead… they came.
Four silhouettes emerged, gliding rather than walking, cloaked in darkness that seemed to warp the snow beneath them. Their features were obscured, faces veiled in static like broken glass refracting shadow. When they spoke, it was with the cadence of clocks breaking:
“They are the intruders of time… the men that should not be.”
“Paradoxes walking on stolen breath.”
“Threads miswoven. Choices unearned.”
“They must be unmade.”
“Paradoxes walking on stolen breath.”
“Threads miswoven. Choices unearned.”
“They must be unmade.”
St. Amou’s eyes widened in horror. “Chronoguards…”
“What?” asked Gleg.
“Echoes of the Time Weavers,” Amou breathed. “They exist to cut diseased threads from the loom of reality. They don’t just kill you… they erase you.”
Pando’ Spiros unslung his hammer, fire flickering in his veins. “Then we’ll make them regret finding us.”
Swords left their sheaths. Steel hummed. Magic sparked. Gogos grinned — this time, a maskless, true smile — and flipped a dagger in hand. “If we’re going to be erased, let’s at least make a damn memorable scene.”
The four beings spread their cloaks like wings of night, runes burning across their spectral forms.
The sky cracked above.
Blood and iron would speak now.
The battle had begun.
