The execution bell rang at dawn, its iron voice rolling over the stone roofs of Ashara like a warning meant for the dead.
Lady Zafira stood among the crowd, her face hidden beneath a coarse wool veil, her hands clenched so tightly that her nails drew blood. The square smelled of damp earth, smoke, and fear—an old smell, one the kingdom knew well. Kings changed, dynasties fell, but executions remained faithful to tradition.
At the center of the square, bound to the blackened wooden post, stood a man history would later try to forget.
Arman ibn Sahel.
Once the royal astrologer. Once the keeper of forbidden maps. Once the only man who had dared to tell the Sultan that the stars did not bless his reign.
Chains wrapped around Arman's wrists glimmered faintly with runes—ancient symbols outlawed centuries ago, when magic was declared treason and fantasy became heresy. His face was calm, almost peaceful, as if he were listening to a voice no one else could hear.
Zafira felt it then.
A tremor beneath the stones.
The executioner raised his torch. The crowd leaned forward. Somewhere, a child began to cry, then fell silent as if silenced by the air itself.
"By decree of Sultan Kadir the Fourth," the herald proclaimed, "this man is condemned for sorcery, sedition, and the crime of altering fate."
Arman lifted his head.
His eyes—unnaturally silver—met Zafira's through the veil.
Her breath caught.
He smiled.
The torch touched the wood.
Fire roared upward, too fast, too bright. The crowd gasped—not in horror, but confusion. The flames did not burn orange. They burned blue.
The ground shook.
Cracks split the square like open wounds. Statues toppled. Horses screamed. The executioner dropped the torch and fled as shadows twisted unnaturally along the walls.
Arman's voice rose above the chaos, clear and commanding.
"Let history remember this moment," he said. "For blood has been paid, and the oath is awakened."
The chains shattered.
Time seemed to pause—not stop, but bend. Zafira felt her memories shift, like pages being rewritten in her mind. She knew, with terrifying certainty, that this was no longer just an execution.
It was a beginning.
The fire collapsed inward, swallowing Arman whole. When it vanished, there was nothing left but ash—no body, no chains, no proof he had ever existed.
Silence fell.
The crowd stood frozen, uncertain whether they had witnessed a miracle or a crime against the world itself.
Slowly, people began to whisper.
That night, the royal archives would bleed ink as records rewrote themselves. Ancient seals would crack open. Dreams long buried would return with teeth.
And far beyond Ashara's walls, something older than the kingdom stirred—something that had been waiting centuries for a single death at dawn.
Zafira turned away from the square, her heart pounding.
She alone remembered Arman's final words clearly.
Because she had helped him write them—many years ago, in a future that no longer existed.