The third time began like the others—with silence.
No screams. No red moon. No monsters clawing through the veil of reality.
Only the sound of birdsong outside the dorm window. The rustle of wind through leaves. The faint snores of Rhoan Keld from the other bed.
Callen Ward sat up slowly.
His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
Loop Three.
His soul felt heavier.
Every reset weighed a little more. Not just on his body—but on his identity. It was like dragging a chain with each rebirth. He could feel pieces of himself slipping. Distant things. Faded memories. The name of his old pet. The smell of home. The warmth of a sister's laughter, now little more than static.
He pulled his knees to his chest.
The knight had spoken to him this time.
"Loop three will be harder."
Which meant someone—something—was watching him evolve. Adjusting the loop. It wasn't just a passive cycle.
It was adaptive.
He needed answers before the hourglass claimed what remained of his mind.
---
Callen didn't waste time on class this loop.
He faked illness, slipped away from the morning schedules, and vanished into the hidden levels of the Academy before breakfast was done.
This time, he wasn't interested in defensive strategies or minor spell upgrades.
He wanted history.
Forbidden history.
The kind buried beneath locks and oaths. The kind you could only find where even archivists feared to walk.
The Subvault.
A forgotten section beneath the Arcarium, sealed since the Mage Rebellion seventy years ago.
During Loop Two, Lyssa had mentioned it only once:
> "You won't find truth in the library. You'll find it beneath the dust they were too afraid to clean."
---
The door to the Subvault was more of a wall than a door. A rune-sealed slab of fused stone, warded in thirteen layers of enchanted binding.
To break in normally would take a team of archmages and two days of chanting.
Callen took five minutes.
He'd been preparing since his last death. Studying the logic behind layered runes. Unraveling magical syntax. Storing power in his new tether anchor.
When he placed his hand on the slab this time, he spoke a single phrase in Old Tongue:
> "By knowledge, not permission."
The runes flared. Sputtered. And cracked.
The stone door opened with a groan, revealing a spiral staircase descending into dust and silence.
---
The Subvault felt dead.
Not in the way a place is abandoned—but in the way a corpse is quiet.
Callen walked carefully through the darkness, his wand illuminating shelves of grimoires, manuscripts, and broken relics. The air was dry as paper. No sound. No movement.
Then he found it.
A chamber marked with a shattered sigil—a stylized hourglass cracked down the middle.
Inside, a single pedestal stood beneath a glass case.
Within it: a journal.
Bound in red leather. Unmarked. Untouched by time.
He opened it.
---
> Journal of Master Aedric Corven—Last Archmage of the First Academy.
Entry #17
They thought the Hourglass was just a metaphor. A concept. But they were wrong.
Time is not linear. It's bound in layers, like glass blown too thin. And something moves between those layers.
We tried to anchor reality. Failed. We tried to destroy the knot. Failed.
Now, it watches us.
Now, it loops us.
> Entry #22
We created it. Or perhaps we merely invited it. A sentient loop. A being of memory. It feeds on progress. Growth. Potential.
I call it: the Chronovore.
The knight we see in our last moments? A servant. Or a fragment.
It kills to reset us. It resets us to feed.
> Entry #27
I no longer know how many loops I've lived.
I no longer know my real name.
The Chronovore whispers to me now. It says: "You are all clocks waiting to break."
Callen's breath caught.
The Chronovore.
That was what this was all about?
Not a curse. Not a rogue spell.
A creature that fed on time itself. That turned people into living loops so it could feast on their struggle, their effort, their loss.
A parasite of destiny.
And the knight—wasn't a coincidence.
It was the blade of the Chronovore, sent to ensure he never left the loop alive.
He stared at the journal's last line:
> There may be one way to kill it. But the cost is too high…
The page was torn.
---
He returned to his dorm that evening in a daze.
Callen had faced monsters. Magic. Death.
But this was worse.
This was existential.
He wasn't just trying to save his friends. He wasn't even just trying to stop a future apocalypse.
He was fighting something fundamental. Something cosmic.
He looked around the familiar room. Rhoan's boots on the floor. A half-eaten biscuit on the desk. Books piled in lazy heaps. Life. Normalcy.
And it was all fake.
Reset again and again for the Chronovore's feast.
Callen's hands trembled.
He couldn't tell them. Rhoan. Isora. The professors.
They wouldn't remember.
Only he would.
Unless…
He looked at the tether anchor inside his soul.
What if he could anchor someone else?
---
The next few days were spent experimenting.
He tested minor anchoring spells—attaching memory fragments to objects, then hiding them in his soul-space.
On the fifth night, he left a rune-carved pendant with Isora, gifting it to her with a smile and a lie.
"Just a charm for luck."
"Aw, Callen," she said, hugging him. "You're oddly sweet this semester."
The pendant glowed softly in her hand.
Callen watched with hope.
---
Day Fourteen came. The sky turned crimson.
Callen stood with Professor Tilwin and Rhoan on the roof of the Astronomy Tower.
This time, he was ready.
He'd mapped the monster breach points. Crafted mana flares to divert them. Set illusion traps. Deployed pulse wards.
When the shadows came, Aethenhold didn't fall in the first minute.
It held.
For fifteen.
Then twenty.
Callen fought beside his allies—shielding, burning, blasting.
He saw Rhoan shield a younger student and smile even as his leg bled.
He saw Isora ignite an entire courtyard with a phoenix burst of flame.
Hope flickered.
Until the knight came again.
---
This time, the knight ran toward Callen.
No pretense. No delay.
Its sword carved through air like fire through parchment.
Callen barely dodged.
They clashed. Again. Again.
Wand versus blade. Light versus shadow.
He struck the knight in the chest—once, twice.
Then the knight slammed him into a pillar.
Callen gasped. Crushed.
"You… can… bleed," he growled.
The knight leaned down.
> "So can you."
The blade pierced his heart.
And the world turned black.
---
Callen Ward woke up.
Alone.
---
He didn't rise immediately.
The pain lingered longer this time. Not physical. Mental. Emotional.
He'd failed again.
But…
He sat up.
His tether anchor glowed brighter.
He hadn't broken.
And more importantly—this time, when he passed Isora in the hallway…
She looked at him.
A strange look. A flicker.
Like déjà vu.
She said nothing. Just smiled.
Callen's heart pounded.
The pendant worked.
He had passed a fragment of memory.
He wasn't alone anymore.
And maybe, just maybe…
That was how he'd win.