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Does that mean he’s not a god, but also not a mortal? What else exists?

I study the Guardian more carefully. The armor that flows like water but shines like stars. The weapons that seem more extension than tool. The eyes that harbor cosmic depths yet flash with recognizable emotions.

“Are you mortal?”

The best question? Maybe not. But I need to learn who we’re dealing with.

For the first time, the Guardian seems affected. The starlight armor darkens like storm clouds passing over a celestial body. His beautiful, precisely sculpted features harden, crystallizing into something less divine and more…human. His hand tightens on his weapon.

“No. As I said, I am the Guardian.” An element enters his voice that wasn’t there before. Regret, maybe?

I continue to prod him. “Yes, so you’ve said. But what does that mean?”

His face closes like a fortress gate. “You’ve asked your three questions. Get out. Never return through the portal again. To return here is to tempt death.”

“That isn’t⁠—”

Cyclone winds strike from nowhere, ripping the words from my throat and shoving us backward. We tumble down the passageway, scrambling for purchase on slippery walls.

My hand finds Lark’s arm and clutches tight as winds propel us through space that shouldn’t exist.

Down, down, down the long climb.

Back into blackness.

When we drop in a tangled heap somewhere in the middle of the passageway, the winds cease. Lark presses against me, her familiar warmth a comfort in the absolute darkness that follows the starlight.

Behind us, Agnar grunts. “What the fuck?”

I can’t see his face, but I can imagine the expression. Somewhere between outrage and bewilderment. The image matches the storm in my own mind as I try to process what in the three hells just happened.

“What the fuck?” is exactly right.

The three Gods of Time hover within the ancient stone chamber. Their ethereal forms glide above the dim light that envelops them.

Silence pulses with a rhythm both familiar and foreign, as if the chamber itself resonates through reality. The air is heavy with ancient magic.

Chronir stares into water. His gleaming robes flow like liquid silver, echoing the infinite knowledge of the ages. “Mortals at the portal. That hasn’t happened in⁠—”

“Three thousand four hundred and twelve years.” Chronoth leans over the pool.

Chronir edges closer, drawn in by the shimmering reflection of possibilities. “But they failed.”

“They always do.” Chronoth’s gaze sharpens as he regards the mortal realm through the darkened veil and notes the fervent desperation that seems to fuel their attempts.

Chronira watches in silence as she shakes her head. The possibilities waver, thin, and fade as their time of emergence passes.

“Hurry,” she utters in a whisper too soft even for her siblings to hear.

The gentle waves ripple across the dimmed light, foreshadowing a looming conflict that’s outcome is slowly being etched in stone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The council chamber resembles my mind right now. Cluttered, chaotic, and stretched far beyond its intended purpose. Maps crawl across tables like invasive vines, reports stack in precarious towers, and the air hangs heavy with too many hours of debate. Elijah’s account of the Devoted man who confronted me is mixed in as well.

The man was long gone, and so far, they haven’t been able to locate him.

I press my fingertips against my temples, where a headache throbs in time with my heartbeat. For four days, including this morning, Bastian took care of everything, but I still need to read through the documents detailing his decisions.