The rebellion at Ashvale spread like wildfire through whispers carried on the wind.
Most people didn't believe it at first. How could prisoners break chains forged by the Council itself? How could anyone defy the system that governed life and death?
But rumors had a way of growing teeth. By the time the story reached the market squares of the capital, it had already become legend: a boy with a cursed arm tore down the prison gates, a girl of light burned through steel, and together they led the doomed into freedom.
For the Council, legends were dangerous.
---
High Chancellor Kaelen stood before the obsidian throne, his golden robes shimmering with embedded runes. His voice cut through the chamber like a blade:
"The people whisper. The cracks widen. If we allow this… infection to spread, our hold will fracture. We need silence."
A row of armored figures stepped forward. They were tall, cloaked in gray-black steel that shimmered faintly with timer-light. Their helmets bore no faces, only a smooth glass pane across which numbers flickered constantly—countdowns that weren't their own.
The Timer Hunters.
Every citizen knew of them. Few had ever seen them. They were the Council's executioners, bound by oaths older than memory.
Kaelen's gaze lingered on their leader: a towering man whose presence bent the room heavier, as though gravity itself served him. His timer glowed an ominous [00 Years : 00 Months : 00 Days]—permanently frozen.
"Arch-Hunter Veyth," Kaelen said softly, "Ashvale's survivors must be erased. No records. No graves. Bring me the boy with the black arm."
Veyth's voice was low, metallic, and calm. "As you command."
---
Far from the marble halls, Aelric's group had pushed deeper into the wilderness. The land grew harsher, cliffs splitting into narrow ravines, and water became harder to find. Every step forward felt like a test, stripping away the weak and leaving only the desperate.
Yet, for the first time, there was a strange sense of purpose. The prisoners were no longer silent shadows. They shared stories, traded names, began to build something resembling community.
Elara walked among them, binding wounds, teaching them to hide their timer-glow with scraps of cloth and ash. She never smiled, but her voice gave comfort.
Aelric, meanwhile, stayed apart. His corrupted arm pulsed more violently since Ashvale, the veins now reaching up toward his cheek. The whispers came more often, echoing in his skull like a second heartbeat.
You can't protect them. You can't even protect her.
He ignored the voices, but his grip on sanity felt thinner each day.
---
That night, a council of the freed prisoners gathered around the fire.
"We need to decide where we're going," one argued. "If we keep wandering, hunger will kill us before the Council does."
"Cities are suicide," another snapped. "We'd be crushed the second we step near the walls."
"What about the old ruins? The temples?" someone else suggested. "Places the Council avoids…"
The murmurs turned to hope and fear in equal measure.
Elara turned to Aelric. "What do you think?"
He stared into the fire for a long moment. "Doesn't matter where we run. They'll come for us. The only choice we have is whether we face them together—or die scattered."
His words silenced the group. There was no comfort in them, but there was truth.
---
While the fire burned low, one of the younger prisoners—a boy with only months left on his timer—slipped to Aelric's side.
"You… you killed one of those Hollows back in the city, didn't you?" the boy asked, voice trembling.
Aelric's eyes flicked to him. "Why?"
The boy swallowed. "Because I… I saw one too. In my dreams. It wore my face."
The revelation sank like a stone. If Hollows could manifest beyond Aelric… then the corruption spreading through the world was far worse than anyone realized.
Before Aelric could respond, the wind shifted.
Elara stiffened, her hand on her dagger.
Then the sound came: metallic steps, perfectly in sync, moving through the night.
---
From the shadows of the ravine, they emerged.
Six Hunters. Their armor caught the moonlight, their timer-panels glowing with alien numbers. Their movements were precise, unnatural, as if each step had been rehearsed a thousand times.
At their center walked Veyth. His presence froze the camp instantly.
Elara whispered, "Hunters…"
Panic rippled through the survivors. Some reached for weapons, others backed away in terror.
Aelric stood, his corrupted arm crackling faintly in the dark. His voice was steady, though his heart pounded. "Stay behind me."
Veyth's glass helm tilted toward him. When he spoke, the sound was not a voice but a resonance that shook the bones.
"You are out of time."
The prisoners screamed as one of the Hunters raised its hand. The air shimmered—and three timers in the camp shattered at once. Their owners collapsed instantly, lifeless, as their countdowns hit zero.
Aelric's blood ran cold.
This was no ordinary fight.
This was a slaughter.
---
But even as fear crushed the camp, Elara's voice cut through the chaos.
"Stand together! Don't break!"
Her light flared, illuminating the night and pushing back the suffocating aura of the Hunters.
Aelric gritted his teeth, raising his blade. His corruption surged, whispering for release.
If you fight them, you'll lose yourself.
"Then so be it," he muttered.
The first clash came like thunder—steel against corruption, time against defiance.
And the war for survival truly began.