The stars looked different now.
Callen Ward stood at the edge of the world—at least, what most would call the edge.
But Lyssa had shown him otherwise.
Beyond the cliffs of Endvale, past the silver trees and the whispering winds, there lay a scar in the sky. A fracture in the firmament where reality shimmered like water over shattered glass.
It was called the Threadgate.
And it was the only known path into the Unwritten Roads.
A thousand worlds where time never looped.
Where choices were made differently.
Where Isora might still exist.
---
Callen took a step forward, the wind clawing at his cloak. He clutched the blackened pendant around his neck—its runes still flickering softly.
Alive. Hopeful.
He remembered Lyssa's final words before she vanished back into her own road:
> "Every choice births a world. But not all of them survive.
You're not walking through time anymore, Callen.
You're walking through possibility."
And possibilities were cruel.
---
The First Thread
The moment Callen stepped through the Threadgate, he felt the weight of a hundred timelines slam into him.
He staggered forward, lungs burning, vision swimming.
Everything twisted.
His bones stretched. His memories jolted. For one terrifying second, he wasn't sure who—or what—he was.
Then it passed.
He landed on stone.
The sky above was green. Not the soft green of spring—but a sickly hue that shimmered with aurora-like streaks. Trees grew upside-down from the clouds. Gravity felt… hesitant.
He looked around.
The Academy—if it could be called that—was shattered. Half its towers floated midair. Doors opened into nothing. The courtyard had become a crater.
Time here had never looped.
But it had bled.
He moved carefully, stepping over broken sigils and crushed stone. Statues of people he didn't recognize lined the halls—some weeping, some screaming.
Then he saw her.
Isora.
Standing beneath a twisted archway, her back to him.
His heart skipped.
"Isora!"
She turned.
Her eyes were hollow.
Not empty.
But wrong.
"Who…?" she asked, voice dry. "Who are you?"
"It's me," he said, stepping closer. "Callen. From another timeline. We fought the Chronovore together. You burned to save me. I'm here to bring you back—"
She raised her hand.
Flame erupted.
Callen dove left as a phoenix bolt obliterated the archway behind him.
"I don't know you!" she screamed. "Stay away!"
He crouched, shocked.
Her aura pulsed—not golden-red like before, but white-hot and wild. Unstable.
He looked again.
She was older. Her face hardened. Her robes ceremonial. Her hands marked with scorched sigils.
> She had lived.
> But she hadn't survived.
---
He didn't fight back.
Instead, he whispered, "I'm sorry."
And ran.
---
Later, on a hill far from the broken Academy, Callen sat by a dying fire, pendant pressed to his chest.
"She was there," he whispered. "But not the same."
He remembered what Lyssa said.
> "Most versions of her won't remember you.
Some will be enemies.
Some will already be dead.
And some… will have never burned for you at all."
He clenched his jaw.
"I'll find my Isora."
---
The Second Thread
This world was made of silence.
No cities. No magic in the air. No wind.
Only ruins.
Aethenhold existed here—but barely. Its walls overgrown, its towers fallen.
Callen walked through ivy-choked halls and ghost-filled classrooms. Dust curled around his boots like memories.
He found a plaque.
ISORA GRAY – LAST ARCHMAGE. SAVIOR OF THE LOOP.
His knees buckled.
She had lived.
She had remembered.
She had… finished the mission.
But too late.
The world had collapsed.
Nothing left.
Only this.
He sat by the monument for hours.
Whispered her name.
And moved on.
---
The Third Thread
This world was almost right.
The sky was blue. The Academy alive. Students ran laughing through the halls.
Callen slipped inside, disguised in mage robes stitched from stolen illusions.
He didn't ask for help.
He searched.
Days passed.
Then—he saw her.
At the northern gate.
Hair tied back. Wand holstered at her side. Laughing with Rhoan—this world's version, alive and unscarred.
Callen's heart ached.
She looked almost the same.
But there was no tether mark on her wrist. No pendant.
No memory.
He couldn't approach her.
He watched.
For hours.
Until she caught him.
Her eyes narrowed.
She walked over.
"…You're new," she said.
Callen swallowed. "Visiting scholar."
She tilted her head. "Have we met before?"
His voice broke. "Not here."
A pause.
Then, gently, she asked: "Why are you crying?"
Callen turned away.
"Because I remember everything."
And she didn't stop him when he walked away.
---
Thread After Thread
He searched.
Fell through burning skies and frozen seas.
Met versions of her who had never gone to the Academy.
Met one who was a Chronovore, twisted by timeline corrosion.
He fought.
He fled.
He wept.
Every time the pendant grew dimmer.
Every time, his memories frayed further.
---
Then, the Final Thread
He nearly missed it.
The world looked ordinary. Slightly too bright. Slightly too calm.
But something in the air felt familiar.
Callen walked through the marketplace. Heard music.
And then—a scent.
Burning cinders. Cinnamon. Starfire blossoms.
Her scent.
He turned—
And saw her.
Sitting beneath the ivy arch of the school gate.
Reading a book bound in red leather.
His book.
She looked up.
And smiled.
Not confused.
Not frightened.
Not empty.
But with tears in her eyes.
"You took your time," she said.
He dropped to his knees.
"Isora—?"
She stood.
Held out the pendant.
"It kept whispering," she said. "Every time I slept. Every time I looked at the stars. It said: 'He's coming.'"
He laughed through the tears.
"I looked through a thousand roads."
She touched his face.
"I remembered one."
And they kissed beneath the broken hourglass carved into the arch.
The time loop was over.
But their story had only just begun.