Alaric's hands were bound by shimmering, thin iron bands as they led him through the cobbled alleys of Eldergate.
These restraints weren't ordinary; they were crafted by the Arcane Order to bind magical energy, a cold reminder of what they thought of him.
He clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of the iron against his skin as it pulsed, suppressing any trace of his power.
The men flanking him said little, their silence as unsettling as their glances. Alaric knew where they were taking him—the Order's inner sanctum, an ancient fortress embedded in the city's underbelly. A place he never thought he'd see again.
"Winters," the man on his right muttered, his voice low. "Never thought you'd be back here. What's it been, five years?"
Alaric didn't respond, his eyes fixed ahead. He had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of his fear or regret. But his silence didn't dissuade them.
"Quite a mess you left behind," the other man added, his tone dripping with mockery. "How long did you think you could hide? Did you believe that little shop of yours could wash away what you did?"
Alaric felt his anger flare, his muscles tightening against the restraints. "I never asked to be dragged into this. I found her dead, the mark already on her," he hissed, his voice steady but his eyes sharp. "I know as little as you do."
The first man chuckled, a sound that grated like broken glass. "Sure you do. I'll bet your hands are clean."
He bit back a retort, forcing himself to breathe through the mounting frustration. With each step, memories clawed their way to the surface—the heavy scent of candle smoke, the murmured incantations in the dim, stone-walled halls, and the weight of the Order's judgment. Eldergate's past whispered to him from every shadow, a constant reminder that he'd left a trail of enemies who wouldn't easily forget him.
They finally reached an imposing iron door, etched with runes and guarded by two more men in the Order's colors. One of them raised an eyebrow at Alaric, his mouth twisting into a smirk.
"Look what we have here," he sneered. "The great Alaric Winters, back in our grasp."
Alaric stared back, refusing to flinch. "You can drop the theatrics. I'm here to answer questions, not grovel at your feet."
The smirk fell, and the guard's eyes narrowed. With a curt nod, he unlocked the door, and Alaric was shoved forward, stumbling into the cold, dimly lit room beyond.
It was as he remembered—a circular chamber lined with shelves of crumbling tomes, relics of the Order's power and influence. At the far end stood the High Seer of the Arcane Order, Lord Balthazar, his lean figure silhouetted against the flickering torches. The man's expression remained unreadable, but his eyes gleamed with a familiar disdain as he looked upon Alaric.
"Winters." Balthazar's voice was low, measured, each syllable laced with something Alaric couldn't quite read. "Or should I say, the disgraced Chronomancer Winters."
Alaric held his gaze. "You summoned me here for a reason, Lord Balthazar. I suggest you get to it."
The old man's lips twitched, a near smile. "Always so insolent. Some things truly never change." Balthazar's gaze drifted to the restraints on Alaric's wrists, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "It seems you've already reacquainted yourself with the consequences of your actions."
"My 'actions,'" Alaric repeated, biting down on the bitterness that surged within him. "If you mean the dead woman outside my shop, I had nothing to do with that."
"Yet she bears your mark, the Eternal Regression curse," Balthazar replied, his tone as smooth and sharp as a blade. He leaned forward, his expression hardening. "Explain to me, Alaric, how a dead girl could bear the mark of a spell you crafted years ago—a spell we were assured you had destroyed."
Alaric's fists tightened. "I destroyed it. There's no possible way anyone could—"
"Then how do you explain her?" Balthazar cut him off, his voice rising with authority. "How do you explain the trail of bodies, each marked with the same curse? You believe we'd come to you without reason?"
Alaric's mind raced, each accusation hitting him like a blow. He hadn't touched that spell since his banishment, had locked away every trace of it, every component—yet here was the proof of it, burned into the skin of a dead woman who had somehow known his name.
"It's not my work," he said, his voice low, restrained. "But someone is using my spell."
Lord Balthazar's gaze didn't waver. "Who, then, Alaric? If not you, then who? You were always the most talented Chronomancer among us—the one with the ambition to push beyond what should have been left alone."
Alaric's anger flared again, hot and unchecked. "Talent isn't the same as recklessness, Balthazar. I know the cost of that spell more than any of you."
"And yet," Balthazar said softly, his gaze penetrating, "people are dying."
Alaric fell silent, feeling the weight of his past settle heavily over him. He'd left this life, had tried to bury it, but the ghosts of his mistakes refused to stay buried. The girl's final words came back to him: The one who never stops.
"Do you think it's Magnus?" he asked quietly, daring to voice the thought that had been gnawing at him. "He was always obsessed with the idea of pushing time magic further, of controlling it."
Balthazar's gaze sharpened. "You believe Magnus Grey is responsible?"
"I don't know," Alaric admitted. "But he's the only one who had access to my notes… before I destroyed them. And he had the arrogance to believe he could control it."
The tension in the room thickened, Balthazar's eyes narrowing as he considered Alaric's words. He tapped a finger against his chin, an action that only underscored the silence.
"You forget, Alaric," Balthazar said slowly, almost a whisper. "Magnus disappeared nearly three years ago. Some believed he perished after he tampered with another forbidden spell. If you're suggesting he survived, then you are suggesting that he's been lying in wait. Watching. Waiting for the right time to emerge."
Alaric's pulse quickened. "And what if he is?"
The High Seer's gaze turned colder, darker, an edge of suspicion returning. "If Magnus has indeed returned, it would mean a threat not just to Eldergate, but to the fabric of time itself. A threat of that magnitude requires the Order's intervention."
He leaned in closer, his voice barely more than a hiss. "And yet, Alaric, I wonder if you're so certain of your innocence. How do I know you aren't behind this? That you're not simply using Magnus as a scapegoat for your own unfinished work?"
The accusation cut deeper than Alaric had expected. He took a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the words he needed fighting to break free. "You know me better than that, Balthazar. If I'd wanted to carry out my work in secret, I wouldn't have left such an obvious trail."
"Perhaps," Balthazar said, his gaze unwavering. "But until we have proof, you remain our most convenient suspect."
Alaric bit down on the frustration gnawing at him. "If it's proof you need, then let me find it. Let me help you find Magnus."
Balthazar watched him, an eerie calm in his eyes as he weighed the offer. "Help the Order… after all these years? You expect me to believe you would risk yourself to protect what you abandoned?"
Alaric's eyes flashed with defiance. "You can lock me in a thousand cells, Balthazar, but this isn't just about the Order or my reputation. Someone is twisting my magic to kill innocent people. And I won't let that go unpunished."
The silence that followed was thick, charged with an unspoken understanding. Balthazar straightened, the calculation in his gaze replaced by something darker.
"You will be watched, Winters. One step out of line, and your freedom is forfeit. Is that clear?"
Alaric held his gaze, unflinching. "Perfectly."
Without another word, Balthazar signaled to the guards, who moved forward to unshackle Alaric's wrists. The iron bands fell away, and a dull ache settled in his arms as he rubbed his raw skin. Yet the weight on him remained.
As he turned to leave, Balthazar's voice stopped him. "One more thing, Alaric," he said, his tone softer, almost a whisper. "This… curse. This trail of bodies. It's leaving a message. A warning that leads directly to you."
Alaric stilled, not daring to look back.
Balthazar's next words were a quiet murmur, chilling and calm. "If Magnus is alive, he's sending you a summons. And if you go to him… make sure you don't return with more than you bargained for."
Without waiting for an answer, Balthazar turned, disappearing into the shadows as the guards led Alaric out of the chamber.