In the beginning, there was only chaos. The world was a swirling vortex of darkness and light, until a divine figure emerged. His name was Erynthos, and he was said to be the son of the sky and the sea. With a wave of his hand, Erynthos shaped the land into a realm of breathtaking beauty. He created towering mountains, lush forests, and vast rivers that flowed with crystal clear water. And when he was satisfied with his creation, he built a great city, which would become the capital of Eryndor.
But creation is never as pure as it seems.
The old stories say that Erynthos formed the world out of love. The truth, whispered only in the crumbling temples, is that he carved it out of hunger. The young god wanted power. Worship. Obedience. He poured his essence into the land, binding every river and mountain to himself. The sky fed him strength. The sea answered to his breath.
And for a time, everything was perfect.
Eryndor rose like a jewel against the world. The city of Highspire glittered with marble towers and golden bridges. Pilgrims crossed continents just to kneel before the god-king's statues. They offered prayers. They offered blood. Erynthos accepted both.
Then, centuries later, the first crack appeared.
Not in the land—
But in him.
He felt it like a tremor under his ribs: a strange weakness, a flicker of mortality. The sky grew distant. The sea grew cold. His divine power began to slip like sand through his fingers. Erynthos panicked. He demanded more sacrifices, more prayers, more devotion. But the more he took, the more the realm began to warp.
Forests whispered his name in fear. Rivers darkened for nights at a time. Shadows developed their own shapes. Reality twisted itself like a wounded animal trying to escape its master.
Erynthos did not care.
A god afraid of death becomes something worse than mortal.
He sought forbidden magic—time magic—something even the ancient gods had refused to touch. He believed that if he could control time, he could control his decay. He could rewrite destiny. He could live forever.
The spell he cast tore the world open.
Time shattered.
Hours bent.
Days repeated.
Nights stretched into distorted shapes.
The curse seeped into the land like poison, warping everything it touched. Villages vanished overnight. People forgot entire years. Some woke up older. Some woke up younger. Some never woke at all.
Erynthos, now more monster than god, retreated into his throne in Highspire, clinging to immortality as the world rotted beneath him.
For centuries the people suffered.
For centuries no one could stop him.
Until one man was born—
A man the king would never be able to predict.
---
Sir Kael of the Northern Reach had no idea he was the last hope of Eryndor.
At dawn, he rode through the twisted remnants of Greenvale Forest. His black stallion's hooves pounded against dead leaves as Kael kept one hand on his sword. The trees around him leaned inward at strange angles, as if listening. Their shadows moved slightly before they should have.
Kael ignored them.
He'd been raised in this cursed world. He knew how to survive it.
What he didn't understand was why his dreams were getting worse.
Last night was the worst of all. Flames. Screams. A city collapsing. And above it all, the tall silhouette of Erynthos himself, draped in gold and shadows, turning slowly to stare directly at him—as if the god-king could see Kael even in the realm of sleep.
And then Kael had woken up gasping, heart hammering, a strange glow around his hands fading fast.
Again.
That wasn't normal.
Even in Eryndor.
He reached the edge of the forest, urging his horse toward the road. The cursed trees thinned. The sky brightened. But Kael felt the shift before it happened—a flicker in the air, a pressure in his skull, a tearing sensation like reality itself had hiccupped.
He blinked.
The world around him blurred—
Then snapped into place again.
Except it wasn't the same.
The forest behind him was whole again, green and alive, as if the curse had never touched it. The sun was higher than it should've been. The road ahead twisted in a direction he didn't recognize.
Kael swore under his breath.
Not again.
This was the fourth time this week.
Time was shifting around him like a broken mirror, and he was caught in its reflection.
Or… no.
Not caught.
Moving.
He wasn't sure how, but he was slipping through time, dropping in and out of different versions of the world. Sometimes minutes. Sometimes hours. Once, he'd jumped an entire day. It never lasted long, but each time, he returned with a pulse of energy burning beneath his skin.
The worst part?
Every time it happened, Kael felt eyes watching him.
Not mortal eyes.
Eyes older than the world.
He shook off the thought and pushed forward. He needed to reach the outpost before nightfall—before the shadows came alive and the Whisperers crawled out of the cracks in time.
He had just reached the crest of the hill when his horse reared violently, almost throwing him. Something stood in the middle of the road.
A figure in a dark cloak.
Tall. Motionless. Face hidden.
Kael drew his sword. "Identify yourself."
The figure didn't move.
Then it spoke—its voice layered, as if several versions of the same person were talking at once:
"Time does not obey him anymore."
Kael froze. "What?"
"The god-king is losing control. And he knows why." The hood tilted up. "Because of you."
Kael's pulse spiked. "Who are you?"
"A messenger," the figure said. "From the one Erynthos imprisoned."
Kael's grip tightened around his blade. "There are no gods left except him."
"There is one," the figure whispered, its voice cracking the air like glass. "And they have chosen you, Knight of the North. You must learn to control your shifting. You must go back to the moment the world broke."
Kael shook his head. "Time-travel? That's impossible."
"Not for you," the figure replied. "Not anymore."
The air rippled. A gust of cold wind blew.
And when Kael blinked— The figure was gone.
Only one thing remained on the road:
A symbol burned into the dirt.
A circle, split by a single jagged line.
Kael stared at it, heart racing.
He had seen this symbol once before.
On the throne of King Erynthos.
And the meaning was clear:
**The god-king had noticed him. And nothing could stop the war that was coming.**