The Third day of the Festival of Veiled Triumph dawned colder, the skies above Tharneval dimmed by a veil of grey clouds that refused to part. From Sylvi's home, Kael sat watching as threads of color wound through the city below. But something was different. The energy pulsing from the Colosseum of Veils had changed—sharper, heavier, as if it awaited one specific moment.
"It's today," Kael murmured. "Something shifts today."
A knock came at the door.
Ayra's voice followed. "Kael? You decent?"
Before he could answer, the door creaked open—and Fenric stumbled in behind it, clearly having been eavesdropping.
"Whoa—!" Thud. He landed awkwardly on one knee, trying to turn the fall into a pose. "Good morning!"
Kael raised an eyebrow. Ayra sighed as she stepped in behind him.
"You're the worst spy I've ever seen," she said flatly.
"I wasn't spying," Fenric huffed, brushing dust from his shirt. "I was…leaning. Strategically."
Kael cracked a smile. "Strategic embarrassment, maybe."
Fenric grinned. "Still better than being a walking paradox."
Ayra rolled her eyes but smirked. "You two done?"
She tapped her boot thoughtfully. "Do you think they'll call your name today?"
"They already have," Kael said, turning back to the window. "I just haven't heard it yet."
As they arrived at the colosseum, banners fluttered in subdued winds. The morning rounds concluded swiftly, and the afternoon crowd surged, eager for the second round's highlight: a duel between Kael and Saerion, the Paradox Sculptor.
From the upper tiers, Velmira stood with arms folded, watching the arena with calculating stillness. Graveth lurked at the rear of the crowd, silent and barely noticed, but his gaze never left Kael.
When Kael stepped onto the central dais, a hush fell over the crowd.
Saerion appeared opposite him. Blindfolded as always, he walked with fluid grace, his blade sheathed in silence.
"I knew we would meet," Saerion said. "The thread has looped back to you."
Kael squared his stance. "Then let's cut it loose."
The battle began without signal.
Saerion's first step rang like a drumbeat across the arena floor. Before Kael could brace, the world snapped—a sharp crack of reality. A shockwave rippled outward, unseen but undeniable. Kael's stride caught mid-step, his weight thrown off. His breath hitched, heart skipping—not from fear, but confusion. The ground beneath him hadn't moved, yet somehow, his future had.
Instinct screamed. Training failed. Logic unraveled.
Then his body moved. No thought, no choice—he sidestepped, raised his blade. Just in time.
Saerion's sword cut the air where Kael's neck had just been. Silent. Blindfolded. Precise.
Causality warped around the Paradox Sculptor. Blades didn't follow physics. Arrows loosed from the arena's automaton watchers curved mid-air and unraveled into smoke. Moments collapsed before they fully occurred. Every step Saerion took rewrote the meaning of time itself.
Kael staggered again, his sword raised late. A strike landed—not on flesh, but on his will. A pressure bent the timeline, as if someone else was choosing how events should unfold.
"I'm losing control of myself."
And then—
Kael's mark ignited.
A white line spiraled along his wrist like living ink. The symbol for Reversal glowed beneath his skin.
Time rippled outward from him.
A raindrop that had never fallen appeared midair and struck the stone.
Saerion stepped forward to finish the duel.
But he missed.
Kael hadn't moved—but the past had changed.
Reality buckled and rewound.
Kael's limbs snapped into motion, not out of reflex, but correction. A moment ago, he was outmatched. Now his body flowed like water across a stone. The gap between intent and action vanished.
Reversal surged. For every cause Saerion introduced, Kael's paradox returned the original effect. Like untying a knot with a mirrored hand.
Their blades clashed. The sound was not of metal on metal, but two truths grinding against each other.
Sparks flared—not orange, but spirals of blue and white, weaving in fractal patterns. The crowd gasped.
Kael ducked a horizontal sweep, the air around it shrinking as if space had flinched. He planted his heel and rolled inward, dodging before the attack began.
Saerion frowned beneath his blindfold.
"You… rewrote the effect of my choices."
Kael's eyes sharpened. "You sculpted causality. I rejected it."
He struck—not the sword, but its echo. The trace of intention that preceded Saerion's action.
The blow connected.
Saerion staggered, one leg buckling. Blood threaded down from beneath the blindfold. His sword dipped.
Kael raised his own, tip pointed in warning.
The Sculptor dropped to one knee. He grinned—not in defeat, but in understanding.
"I yield," Saerion said softly, reverently. "The fracture chooses clarity."
Cheers exploded across the arena. But Graveth did not cheer. Velmira only nodded once, her chains shimmering faintly.
After the battle, Kael returned to his companions.
Sylvi ran to him first. "You're not hurt?"
Kael gave a breathless smile. "No… but something inside me feels wider now. Like a door opened."
Fenric clapped his shoulder. "That was insane. You broke time."
Ayra leaned on her bow. "You danced with impossibility and won. I think… I think that means something."
They walked the city's glowing edge, surrounded by floating petals and bells tolling from unseen towers. Kael paused at a stall and bought a silver ring carved with paradox glyphs, handing it to Sylvi without a word. She blushed, but said nothing.
That night, Kael stood alone on the terrace of Sylvi's home. Stars shimmered. The spiral constellation overhead pulsed faintly.
Behind him, Velmira's voice broke the silence. She had not been invited.
"You walk with force now. But force alone unravels."
Kael turned. "What do you want?"
"To watch," she said. "And to witness the moment you fracture yourself."
She vanished without a trace.
Kael gripped the railing.
From below, a voice echoed—not out loud, but in the bone:
"One step closer to truth. One step closer to ruin."
Kael looked up. The stars blinked in patterns.
And far across the city, Graveth knelt in an empty alley, whispering to his other selves—fractured shadows stitched from broken threads of reality.
"He's nearly ready," Graveth murmured. "The echo sharpens. The world is listening."
In the reflection of a puddle, three Graveths whispered back in unison:
"Then let the next fracture begin."