When the last hunter fell silent, the city was unrecognizable.
Not destroyed.
Changed.
Moments flowed unevenly. Some people aged minutes in seconds. Others did not age at all. The sky no longer bled—but it watched.
Ash leaned against a fractured wall, exhausted.
"Well," he said. "You've done it."
"Done what?" Elias asked.
Ash met his eyes. "You made time mortal."
Mara stepped closer, voice shaking. "What happens now?"
Before anyone could answer, Elias felt it.
A gaze.
Not from above.
From ahead.
The future—no longer singular—turned its attention backward.
Visions slammed into Elias: cities worshipping him, timelines collapsing in rebellion, versions of himself hunted, crowned, erased.
And one image that froze his blood.
Himself—older, hollow-eyed—standing over Ash's body.
Elias staggered.
Ash saw it in his face and laughed softly. "Ah. You saw that one."
"You die," Elias whispered.
Ash shrugged. "Everyone does. Eventually."
The future pulsed.
Waiting.
Elias straightened.
"Then let it watch," he said. "I'm done letting time decide what ends."
Far away, something ancient shifted its strategy.
And for the first time since existence began, the future was no longer certain.