The night after the rebellion was darker than any Aelric had ever known.
The wilderness stretched endless around them, broken only by jagged cliffs and the skeletal remains of long-dead forests. A bitter wind carried the smell of smoke from Ashvale prison, still burning behind them.
The prisoners who had escaped were scattered across the scrublands, their silhouettes lit faintly by the moon. Some limped from wounds, some carried the dead, and some simply collapsed to the ground, too shocked to believe they were breathing free air.
Freedom, Aelric realized, did not taste sweet. It tasted like blood and ash.
---
He sat near a broken tree stump, his blade across his knees. His timer pulsed faintly in the moonlight:
[12 Years : 2 Months : 14 Days]
It ticked down as if nothing had changed. As if dozens of lives hadn't been snuffed out hours ago.
Elara sat across from him, wrapping a cloth around her injured arm. She had fought harder than anyone else, her magic tearing open the wall, her courage keeping the prisoners from scattering before the breach. And yet, her eyes were shadowed, haunted.
"We freed them," Aelric said quietly.
Elara didn't look up. "We doomed them."
Her words cut sharper than any blade.
---
Around them, the survivors were beginning to argue.
"We need food."
"No, weapons—we won't last a week if the Council comes."
"My brother didn't make it out, I'm going back—"
"You'll get yourself killed!"
The whispers grew louder, threatening to fracture the fragile unity.
Aelric rose slowly, his voice steady. "Enough."
Dozens of eyes turned to him. The crowd quieted, though anger and fear still trembled beneath the surface.
"We cannot go back," he said. "Not to Ashvale. Not to the Council's chains. If you want to survive, you need to stay together. We fight, or we die."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some nodded, others scowled.
A thin, wiry man stood, his timer glowing a faint [3 Years : 11 Days]. His voice shook with rage. "Fight? Fight what? The Council controls the cities, the armies, even the timers themselves. You saw what happened tonight! How many did we lose? You think we're soldiers?"
His words struck a chord. Heads lowered. Whispers grew again.
Aelric clenched his fists. He knew the man wasn't wrong. But surrender meant death just as surely as rebellion.
It was Elara who finally spoke, her voice firm despite her pain. "You may not be soldiers. But you are witnesses. You have seen the truth with your own eyes—that the Council is not infallible. That their grip can be broken. If you scatter now, you will die alone. If you stand together…" She lifted her chin. "…you will become more than prisoners. You will become a force they cannot ignore."
The fire in her words lit something inside the crowd. A spark of unity.
Aelric caught her gaze and gave a small nod.
For tonight, at least, they were holding the pieces together.
---
Later, when most had settled into uneasy rest, Aelric kept watch at the edge of camp. The stars burned cold above him.
Elara approached quietly, sitting beside him. For a long time, they said nothing.
Finally, she asked, "Do you believe what I said? That we can become more than this?"
Aelric's jaw tightened. "I want to. But belief doesn't stop arrows, or swords, or the Council's reach. What happened tonight…" His voice faltered. "…it will bring their wrath faster than ever."
Elara studied him, her expression unreadable. Then she said softly, "You fight like a man who doesn't fear death."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Maybe because I already know when it comes."
Her eyes flicked to his wrist. "Twelve years is a long time."
"Long enough to lose everything," he muttered.
Her gaze softened, and for a moment the weight between them lightened. But only for a moment.
---
Far away, in the Council's grand chamber, a storm brewed.
High Chancellor Kaelen stood before a towering map, his timer burning a golden [67 Years : 4 Months : 2 Days]. His voice was calm, but his eyes were cold as winter steel.
"Ashvale has fallen. Commander Dareth is dead. And worse—their rebellion spread beyond the walls. Survivors walk free."
Gasps filled the chamber.
One councilor whispered, "If word spreads—"
Kaelen raised a hand. Silence fell instantly.
"Word will not spread. We will send hunters. Silence the rebels. Burn their names from history. And if the timers themselves must be corrected…" He smiled thinly. "…then we will remind the world who holds the keys to fate."
His gaze lingered on the southern edges of the map, where reports of timer glitches had begun to multiply. His mind turned not to rebellion, but to opportunity.
"The cracks are widening," he murmured to himself. "And soon, the whole system may break."
---
Back in the wilderness, Aelric dreamed uneasy dreams.
He saw flashes of fire and ruin, cities collapsing under the weight of broken timers. He saw Seraphiel's eyes staring through the veil, warning him of a destiny far greater than rebellion.
And he saw a figure cloaked in shadow, standing amidst the ruins of the world, holding in his hand not one timer—but all of them.
When Aelric woke, sweat dampened his skin. His timer glowed faintly in the dark.
[12 Years : 2 Months : 13 Days]
One day less.
The numbers ticked on, indifferent to rebellion, to loss, to hope.
But for the first time, Aelric wondered if the numbers themselves could be broken.
And if they could… what kind of world would rise from the ashes?