Chapter 3: The Day Time Cracked
The first scream tore through the garden just as Delary reached the marble steps.
At first, she thought it was laughter—high-pitched, careless, the kind that often echoed through the estate during gatherings. But the sound sharpened, splintered, turning into something raw and terrified.
"Lady Delary!"
A servant came running toward her, face pale, breath uneven. "Please—return to your chambers at once. There's been… an incident."
Delary's heart dropped. "What incident?"
The servant hesitated, eyes darting past her shoulder. "It's not safe."
Before Delary could press further, the air shifted.
She felt it before she saw it—a sudden pressure, like the world itself had inhaled and forgotten how to breathe. The birds went silent. The warmth of the afternoon sun dulled, as though a shadow had passed over it.
Then came the explosion.
The west wing erupted in a roar of stone and fire. The ground trembled violently beneath Delary's feet, knocking her off balance. She cried out as she fell, her palms scraping against cold marble.
Screams filled the air.
"Protect the lady!"
"Assassins—seal the gates!"
The estate descended into chaos.
Delary pushed herself up, her chest tight, ears ringing. Smoke curled into the sky from beyond the hedges, dark and angry. She could smell burning oil, shattered magic, blood.
This wasn't an accident.
This was an attack.
"Delary!"
She turned just in time to see Spencer running toward her.
He moved faster than she had ever seen him move—coat discarded, expression stripped bare of its calm restraint. His eyes were sharp, furious, and afraid in a way that made her stomach twist.
"Don't move," he said sharply. "Stay exactly where you are."
"What's happening?" Delary asked, her voice shaking despite her effort to stay composed. "Is my family—"
"No time," he cut in.
Something whistled through the air.
Spencer spun, pulling Delary against him just as a blade embedded itself into the stone where her head had been moments earlier. She gasped, clutching his coat as he shielded her with his body.
"I told you not to move," he muttered, not in anger, but in panic.
Another explosion echoed nearby. Shouts followed—guards engaging unseen enemies, magic clashing violently against steel.
Delary's heart pounded so loudly she was certain Spencer could hear it.
"Spencer," she whispered. "You knew this would happen."
His grip tightened.
"Yes," he said.
The word hit harder than the blast.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. "You knew."
Spencer's jaw clenched. "I didn't know when. Or how soon. But yes—this moment was coming."
Another blade flew.
Spencer raised a hand.
The air distorted.
The blade froze mid-flight, trembling violently before shattering into fragments that clattered harmlessly to the ground.
Delary stared.
That wasn't ordinary magic.
That wasn't anything she had ever seen.
"What… was that?" she asked.
Spencer didn't answer. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her forward, weaving through the garden paths with practiced precision. He moved like someone who had already memorized every turn, every blind spot.
Like someone who had done this before.
They reached a stone archway just as a group of masked figures emerged from the smoke. One raised a staff, chanting rapidly.
Spencer shoved Delary behind him.
"Close your eyes," he said.
"I won't," she snapped, fear sharpening her resolve. "I won't be treated like a child."
He looked back at her, something raw flashing in his eyes.
Then he sighed. "Fine. But don't forget what you see."
He stepped forward.
The air around him snapped.
Magic surged—not bright or elegant, but heavy, oppressive, as if time itself had bent around his presence. The chanting faltered. One of the attackers staggered, clutching his head.
"What—what is this?" someone screamed.
Spencer spoke a single word.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.
But the moment he said it, the world lurched.
The attackers collapsed as if their strings had been cut, bodies hitting the ground in a chorus of dull thuds. The remaining figures fled instantly, terror written into their movements.
Silence followed.
Delary stood frozen, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Spencer turned to her slowly.
For the first time since she had met him, there was no mask on his face.
Only exhaustion.
And guilt.
"You weren't supposed to see that," he said quietly.
Delary swallowed hard. "What are you?"
His gaze softened—just slightly. "Someone who failed once."
She shook her head. "That's not an answer."
"No," he agreed. "But it's the truth."
Guards began pouring into the garden, shouting orders, securing the perimeter. Spencer stepped back, putting distance between them, as if afraid of what would happen if he stayed too close.
Delary grabbed his sleeve.
"Don't," she said. "Don't disappear again."
His breath hitched.
"You don't understand," he murmured. "Every time I interfere, the timeline resists harder. This attack shouldn't have happened this early."
Her blood ran cold. "Earlier than what?"
He met her gaze.
"Than last time."
The world tilted.
"You've lived this," Delary said slowly.
"Yes."
"And I—" Her voice faltered. "I was here before."
Spencer looked away.
"That's the part I don't know," he admitted. "You weren't supposed to exist like this. You weren't part of the original flow."
Delary's chest tightened painfully. "So what am I to you?"
He hesitated.
Then, very softly, he said, "My reason for breaking time."
Footsteps approached again—her father's voice calling her name, frantic and furious.
Spencer stepped back, the distance returning.
"This changes everything," he said. "They've noticed you now."
"Who?" Delary demanded.
But he was already retreating into the smoke and confusion, his presence fading like a fracture sealing itself shut.
That night, the estate was silent in a way it had never been before.
Delary sat alone in her room, staring at her trembling hands.
For the first time since her reincarnation, she understood something clearly.
Her life of glittering safety was over.
The timeline had cracked.
And she was standing right at the center of the break.