It all began in the narrow alleys of a sleeping city. A silhouette leapt from roof to roof, swallowing shadows as if they were no more than an extension of his body.
With every movement, runic circles burst into the air, traced with dazzling speed. The next instant they triggered their effect and vanished.
But not all of them died out. Some hung suspended in the sky, engraved like moving constellations: invisible traps, nets of energy ready to snap shut. Other circles served as springboards, flinging his body from one ledge to the next.
His outline dissolved and reappeared elsewhere, elusive. Each circle seemed preordained, each trap calculated. Everything suggested he was not fleeing: he was directing the hunt.
"Still… behind me," he grated through his teeth.
And they were. Six silhouettes, now sharply defined. They cut through the night with the same ease as him, vaulting from wall to wall, slipping through shadows like implacable predators. A relentless pursuit, where no breath was left to chance.
The man dove into an alley, his hand brushing the cobbles. Instantly, a runic circle formed at blazing speed. Barely born, it flared and broke: his body disintegrated into a cloud of black mist that stretched through the air, slipping from his pursuers' grasp. A breath later, he reconstituted himself, already farther away, as if space itself answered his will.
When he reappeared, it was in the middle of a forest.
The trees writhed where he passed; vegetal illusions blurred sight, every trunk becoming a mirage, every branch a weapon.
The lone silhouette brushed a tree, and immediately ten copies of him materialized among the trees. Each double moved with supernatural fluidity, tracing circles that detonated into sparks.
One of the Oracles leapt into the mêlée, his golden thread sweeping through the illusions. But each time he destroyed one, two more sprang up farther away. The illusions burst into embers, gouging the ground with scorch marks.
Hidden within the thicket, the man let out a short laugh.
"If I wanted to, you'd already be ash. But I have better things to do than play with you."
The Oracle ground his teeth, unable to guess which one was real. The man snapped his fingers: all his copies exploded at once, a deluge of flame and cinder washing the forest. And in the chaos he had already vanished, projected further still into a circle of unknown symbols.
He appeared yet again, this time inside a cave.
Echoes magnified his footsteps; the walls hummed with magical resonances. Reflections of his pursuers stretched across the stone — six relentless shadows that never lost the trail.
A brief clash erupted. He spun, loosed a quick spell: the circle flared, a rain of luminous shards swept the entrance. But a voice rang through the echoes, steady:
"That will not be enough. Surrender him!"
He clenched his fists. The runes faded, and he resumed his flight into the darkness. The cave seemed endless, but each fork lengthened the path for his pursuers. He finally reemerged at the mouth, panting, a narrow lead wrested at the last second.
Before him, the mountain. The icy air bit his lungs, the wind slapped his cheeks. His steps sounded on bare rock. Behind him they were already coming back, closer than before.
He stopped finally, at the edge of a ragged peak. His breath raised dust. In his trembling hands, runic circles lit up by reflex, then died almost as quickly.
"Enough…"
His voice was heavy, weary. His eyes burned with an exhausted flame. Slowly he drew a grimoire from his coat: an ancient book bound in blackened leather, its pages quivering as if containing a storm about to burst.
Silence fell for a moment. The wind grew heavy. His pursuers appeared on the ridge in the distance, six shadows lined up, their gazes fixed on him.
He raised the book, and an bitter smile split his face.
"Is that what you want?... Then look closely."
And the sky above the mountain began to crack.
The grimoire vibrated in his hands, its pages beating like impatient wings. He turned his eyes toward the six silhouettes aligned on the ridge. The wind howled, but his voice cut through the air with icy clarity:
"Damn Oracles… You're always there sowing your poison. The only way to stop you is to give everything. Aren't you tired? You've always been the worst."
An Oracle with a cavernous voice answered first:
"We do not seek you, but what you hold. Give it up, and we will be done."
The man cracked an ironic smile, clutching the book's leather like a weapon.
"Your friends in the Order of the Forgotten won't stop at the book. They want me. And I doubt I'll last long with them on my tail… not otherwise."
A second Oracle, with a voice sharp as a blade, sneered:
"Oh come on… don't be so dramatic. A man like you will always survive. Don't make us believe you're nothing without this grimoire."
The man let out a dry laugh.
"That's kind of you to say. But you know what amuses me? All that time hunting me, and you never dared speak my name. Are you afraid of drawing your little comrades from the Order?"
A heavy silence followed. Even the wind seemed to hesitate. A third Oracle, calmer and colder, spoke slowly:
"You know well that names are dangerous… especially those borne by beings like you."
An invisible chill ran through the mountain. The runes that had briefly danced around the man cracked, as if the world itself held its breath. His grin widened, cruel.
"That's true. And that's why I have no fear standing here before you, Reil… Pillar of the Web."
At that name, the air vibrated. The wind howled harder; the shadows of the other Oracles trembled as if an unseen force had shaken them. Reil staggered back a step despite himself, his mask of assurance showing a hairline fissure.
Another Oracle, nervous, snapped:
"How dare you! You don't—"
"Enough," the man cut in. "I'm tired of talking."
He flung the book open. The pages ignited, casting a shower of blazing runes. The ground vibrated; the mountains thrummed like a struck string.
A silhouette began to form in the air. Symbols whirled in a spiral around it as if tearing every fragment of flesh and shadow from the fabric of the world. The contours slowly sharpened, but the pressure they exhaled was already unbearable: a crushing presence, too vast to be contained there.
Then, amid the racket of runes, a voice burst out. At first distant, muffled like an echo lost through the ages… then nearer and nearer, ringing through every thread of the world. A clear laugh rose, shattering the stunned silence.
"Hahaha… I never thought I'd see us in this sort of situation again. It's been a while… and is that how you called me?"
The man, breathless but with burning eyes, answered almost playfully:
"Tyril… it's been a long time. After all this time, what's new? As you can see, I'm in a bit of a pickle: six Pillars of the Twelve stand before me. If I'm to get away, I'll have to kill them… Could you spare me a catastrophe for the Web?"
The blazing runes assembled, forming a brilliant spiral. The air itself seemed to crease, as if the world were a veil far too thin. At the heart of the fracture, a silhouette took shape.
His features first emerged as shifting shadows before resolving with uncanny clarity. His eyes opened at once, two tiny golden suns, their light cutting through the mountain like beacons. Around him, countless golden threads began to undulate in the air, dancing like fragments of destiny torn from the Web itself. The threads coalesced, weaving into parts of his clothing, as though his vestments were extensions of the cosmic weave.
A funeral hush fell.
"…Tyril?" one of the Oracles breathed, incredulous. "Are we really talking about the same one?"
"If he truly exists… then we are doomed," another whispered.
"How did he get summoned?" a third Oracle asked, alarm threading his voice. "The Book of the Forgotten is not supposed to bring back the living."
A fourth Oracle raged:
"What do we do?! We can't fight him. Not here. Not in the Web. If he crashes into us full on… we'll be swept away for centuries."
The six recoiled by instinct, forming a hesitant line before the impossible.
Tyril, however, had eyes only for the man. An amused smile split his face.
"Well… you and your bedtime stories. Six Pillars of the Web, just for you? Even some gods didn't get that kind of attention. You're the same old spark as ever."
The man looked up to the sky and sighed.
"Stop making me into what I'm not. They came to me, not the other way around. I don't seek their attention. I endure it. And believe me… it gets heavy."
Tyril burst into a clear laugh, but it carried a supernatural echo.
"Annoying, you say? You haven't changed. I too was hunted by Oracles once. But I managed to disappear before a single pillar could set eyes on me. Even so, it was hell. I spent an eternity walking the Web, in the past and in the future, erasing my traces. And you… you come whining that six of them chase you? Hahaha! You haven't changed… actually, you've worsened in your extravagance."
His gaze grew sharper, his golden threads twitching like living serpents.
"Speaking of extravagance, tell me… you still have it, don't you?"
A sly smile twisted the man's lips.
"Of course. It's easy to flee Oracles when you're one yourself, Tyril. Especially you… Tyril the oracle-turned-god, conqueror of the Web, lost to time. But for the rest of us, who cannot cheat, survival is harder."
He tapped the book's leather.
"And yes. You guessed it: if they're here… it's because the Book is still with me."
The six Oracles exchanged a look, then in unison activated their powers. Golden threads sprang around them, knotting and weaving in the air. Reality cracked open and the Web revealed itself: an immense bridge suspended in the void, made of luminous ropes so thick they seemed to support the universe itself. On that path one could only step forward or backward. To step back was to plunge into the past. To step forward was to stride into the future.
All around, fragments of events flashed by: forgotten battles, future faces, births not yet occurred. Here, the Pillars had the power to rewrite history. Six of them together were a force capable of remolding fate.
But when they lifted their eyes, their confidence shattered. A figure already waited at the heart of the Web.
Tyril.
His golden eyes lit the span. The threads of the weave themselves bowed toward him, drawn like tides under a moon too near.
His voice rang, calm yet inexorable:
"Drop it, friends. I have seen your destiny, and it can still be saved… if you leave now. I am not cruel enough to hand down such a sentence to the Web. Nor to Itharion."
At that name, the entire Web trembled. The threads vibrated like plucked strings. An Oracle screamed, his voice shredded by dread:
"How dare you pronounce his name! Itharion is the god of time and destiny. You… you no longer have the right to call his name!"
A cruel smirk split Tyril's face. The golden threads wound about the six, entrapping them like prey in a cosmic spiderweb.
"Shut up, pillar. I am not your colleague. And for your information, I am technically a god. I call Itharion as I please. If you don't want to spend the next centuries drifting lost in the weave, then disappear."
They understood. The whole Web obeyed him. Here, he was sovereign. In this suspended world, any resistance would be futile. And in the real world… if the man opened the Book without restraint, it would be worse still.
The six immediately freed themselves, withdrawing. In an instant they stood again before Tyril and the man, on the mountain.
The man watched them with a sardonic smile.
"Ha, that was swift. That's what I love about you: you know the value of time."
One of the Oracles spat, bitter:
"Enough theatrics. You've won this time. But know that this is only a reprieve. Next time, we will be better prepared."
They turned their backs. But Reil halted, turned slowly. With a smile on his lips he tossed out in a clear voice:
"Until next time… Sorus, Counter of Legends."
At that name the mountain itself shuddered. Sorus clenched his fists, and the six vanished into shadow.
He was left alone with Tyril.
"Damn Oracles… always so annoying. Next time, I'll slaughter them. All of them."
Tyril let out a short laugh.
"Calm down, will you? Don't forget that, technically, I'm an Oracle too."
"You don't count. You became a god; you're not like them anymore."
"Technically, Itharion is the god of time and destiny. I'm only a minor god."
Sorus looked up at the sky.
"I'm sure you could have become a proper god. And stop contradicting me, for heaven's sake. They spoke my name. The others will come running. Do something useful and weave the Web like you know how. Buy me time. Enough time for me to disappear."
Tyril shrugged, amused.
"Okay, okay… buying time, that's within my skill set. But afterwards we talk. I've got things that have been bothering me for a long time."
Sorus didn't reply. He was already opening the Book, his fingers flipping the pages with febrile urgency. Nearby, Tyril unrolled golden threads that wove a vibrating barrier, oppressive with power. His gaze slid toward the grimoire.
"So that's it… the famous Book of the Forgotten. A mere leather notebook… blank pages for everyone but its bearer. Fascinating."
Sorus snorted.
"Ah, that one should do… Tyril, you must remember it, you were around then, haha!"
The golden threads trembled, annoyed. Tyril narrowed his eyes.
"My era? Really? Stop treating me like an artifact. I'm still relevant."
Sorus burst into a dry laugh.
"Hahaha! I doubt it, friend. In my time, your name evokes nothing. The rare few who have heard it think you're a legend… or a forgotten corpse."
Tyril raised an eyebrow, his smile twitching.
"And you, what do you think you are? If you know me, it's because you've been loitering as long as I have."
"False," Sorus replied with pride. "I'm not even forty, and I'm in top shape. You, on the other hand… your age is counted in centuries, not years."
"Yeah, yeah, sure… keep burying me if it amuses you. But get to the point. Who are you talking about?"
Sorus looked up from the Book, a sarcastic glint in his eye.
"I'm talking about…"