The fire had long since died, leaving only pale orange coals crumbling into grey. A bitter wind dragged ash across the stones and into the folds of Ethan's tattered coat. Morning light filtered through the skeletal trees of the ruined forest, catching only the cracked tops of moss-ridden stones and the jagged tips of splintered watchtower beams.
Ethan sat motionless beside the fading campfire, his back resting against the collapsed foundation of what had once been a sturdy wall. His eyes were open but unfocused. He wasn't staring at anything. Not really. His mind was somewhere deeper, lost in the storm of memory that had begun the moment the Crown appeared above him.
It wasn't just a flash of knowledge. It had been a flood. An ocean of recollection that poured into his skull with cruel force. Every battle, every world, every decision he had made, now etched behind his eyes like carvings in stone. But it wasn't just his life. That's what disturbed him most. He had seen himself die a hundred ways, in a hundred lands, wearing faces both familiar and alien.
There had been a life where he fell to poison in a tower. Another where he drowned beneath a collapsed sea fortress. One memory showed him aged and worn, whispering ancient warnings to a new child born under cursed skies. In all of them, the Spiral had risen. The same apocalypse. The same unraveling of time and reality. And in every instance, he had failed.
Ethan exhaled slowly, blinking as if returning to himself. The sword at his side—stolen from the battlefield—remained where he'd laid it, propped between two stones. He hadn't touched it since the last fight. It seemed heavier now, not because of its weight, but because of what it represented. A symbol of the endless cycle he now carried within him.
Lira sat not far from him, perched atop the ruins of a broken well, arms folded, eyes tracking the horizon. She hadn't spoken much since the Crown appeared. He noticed the subtle way her posture had changed. She didn't relax anymore. Not even when they stopped to rest. Her shoulders were tight. Her jaw clenched. She watched him like one might watch a lit fuse—unsure of when or how it would detonate.
Finally, she spoke.
"How much do you remember?"
Her voice was quiet, but not gentle. She sounded like someone who wanted a lie, but wouldn't believe one even if she heard it.
Ethan looked over at her. The cold breeze brushed his face, but he barely felt it.
"All of it. Every time it happened. Every version of this world breaking apart. Every failure."
Lira didn't move.
"That's what your Crown gave you?" she asked.
He nodded slowly. "It's called the Crown of Regression. It shows me the past. Not just my past, but every iteration of this world. Every cycle. Every end."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, though her expression didn't change.
"Why you?"
Ethan shook his head.
"I don't know. Maybe I had it in one of those other lives, and it carried forward. Or maybe I was always meant to bear it. Or maybe it's random, and the Spiral just needs someone to remember the pattern."
Lira stood, stepping down from the well and brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. She moved closer, boots crunching softly on dead leaves. She looked tired, but determined. There was a fire inside her, banked low but never extinguished.
"Then tell me something useful," she said. "If you've seen the end a hundred times, then you know how to stop it."
Ethan met her gaze. He saw the hope there, buried deep, hidden under suspicion and fatigue.
"I tried to stop it before," he said, voice low. "In some cycles, I rallied kingdoms. In others, I killed would-be tyrants before they rose. I rewrote prophecy. I destroyed relics. I even tried to sever the Spiral itself."
"And?"
"And every time, it adjusted. Like it was alive. Like it knew. The Spiral doesn't just repeat—it adapts. You push one piece out of place, and it finds another way to fall apart."
Lira's lips pressed into a thin line. She turned away from him, arms folding tightly across her chest.
"So we're doomed. Again."
Ethan stood slowly, stretching his limbs. They ached from the cold and from sleeping on stone, but he had grown used to discomfort. He stepped beside her, watching the rising sun.
"I don't believe in fate," he said. "Not anymore. The Spiral may bend the world toward destruction, but people still make choices. That's the part it can't control. That's the part we need to change."
She looked over her shoulder, skeptical.
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not. But it's possible."
Lira walked to the edge of the ruins, where broken cobblestone paths led into the deeper forest. The trees here were thin, sickly, their bark blackened with ash. A distant haze clung to the air, carrying the faint scent of smoke and rot. Somewhere beyond the trees, carrion birds circled lazily, too full from yesterday's slaughter to bother hiding.
"Where do we go from here?" she asked.
Ethan followed her gaze.
"In one of the past cycles, there was a scholar named Dren Vale," he said. "He lived in a monastery high in the cliffs of Lorash. He was the first to realize the world was looping. He spent his life recording the evidence. In that timeline, I found him too late. He was already dead, and his records were stolen by the Court of Masks."
"You think he's alive this time?"
"I don't know. But if he is, he might hold the key to breaking the Spiral."
Lira nodded once.
"Then we head north."
She began gathering their few supplies. A bedroll. A satchel of dry roots. The half-empty flask of water they'd taken from the outpost.
Ethan bent to collect the sword. The metal was still cold to the touch. He felt its weight again, and this time, he accepted it.
As they prepared to leave, a faint sound broke the silence.
Footsteps.
Not from the road. From the forest.
Lira stiffened instantly. Her hand flared with heat, flame coiling around her fingers with practiced ease.
Ethan raised his sword and took a step forward, eyes scanning the treeline.
Then the figure stepped into view.
It was a boy. Maybe fourteen, thin and ragged. His cloak was torn, and his boots were barely holding together. His eyes were wide, too large for his face, and his skin was the color of old parchment. He carried no weapon.
He stopped when he saw them, breathing heavily.
"Are you... firecasters?" he asked, voice cracking.
Lira's flames dimmed slightly, but she didn't lower her hand.
"Who's asking?"
The boy looked behind him, fear written in the way he moved. He took another step forward.
"They're coming. They're close. Please... help me."
Ethan glanced at Lira.
"Could be bait," she muttered.
"Or a survivor," he countered.
Before they could decide, the woods behind the boy exploded.
Not with fire or light, but with movement.
Five figures emerged from the trees, cloaked in dark robes, faces hidden behind jagged metal masks shaped like beasts. Their hands crackled with violet energy, and the very air around them shimmered with corrupt force. The boy screamed and dropped to the ground.
Ethan moved instantly.
He surged forward, blade raised, intercepting the nearest masked attacker before they could strike. His sword met a staff of dark iron, and the shock of the impact sent a jolt up his arm.
Lira's flames erupted behind him, bathing the field in roaring fire. One of the cultists screamed as the fire consumed him, his robes turning to molten slag.
Ethan ducked under a second strike and drove his sword upward, piercing the attacker's shoulder. The figure howled, but did not fall. These were not ordinary enemies. They moved with coordination, with purpose. They had trained for this.
He rolled aside just in time to avoid a blast of violet energy that scorched the earth where he had been standing.
Lira drew the flame inward, focusing it into a single sphere, then hurled it at the leader. The blast struck the cultist square in the chest, sending him flying into a tree. Bark shattered. The body hit the ground and did not rise.
The remaining two hesitated.
Ethan stepped between them and the boy, sword raised, breathing hard. His muscles burned, but he held steady.
"You picked the wrong fight," he said through gritted teeth.
One of the cultists snarled and raised a hand. A jagged bolt of magic lanced toward him—but Ethan was faster.
He moved before thinking, letting instinct guide him. His sword flashed in a clean arc, and the cultist dropped with a spray of blood.
The last attacker turned to flee, but Lira didn't let her.
She raised both hands, and a wall of fire roared up behind him. Trapped, the cultist dropped his staff and raised his hands.
"Mercy!" he cried.
Ethan stepped forward, blade still dripping.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
The cultist trembled.
"The Court... the Court of Masks. They saw the Crown. They saw you. You are the harbinger."
Ethan's eyes narrowed.
"And what do they want?"
"To bind the Spiral. To control it. They think it can be shaped."
Lira raised her hand again, fire dancing across her palm.
"And you think that won't end the world?"
The cultist shook his head. "They believe it already has. This is just the afterimage. They want to be gods in the ashes."
Ethan looked at Lira. She met his gaze, and for a moment, there was agreement.
Then she stepped forward and burned the cultist alive.
The boy still sat trembling on the ground, his eyes wide with terror.
"You killed them," he whispered.
"We saved you," Lira replied flatly.
Ethan crouched beside the boy.
"What's your name?"
"Callen."
"Do you have family?"
The boy shook his head slowly.
"Not anymore."
Ethan stood and looked toward the road north.
"We're heading to the cliffs of Lorash. It's dangerous. We're being hunted. But if you come with us, you won't be alone."
Callen hesitated, then stood on shaky legs.
"I'll go."
Lira didn't argue.
The three of them walked away from the ruin together, the sun climbing higher behind them. The Spiral turned. The Crown pulsed with silent memory. But for the first time in a long time, Ethan felt like maybe—just maybe—the future hadn't been written yet.