The chamber, carved from the bones of the Earth itself, breathed with ancient power. Its walls shimmered with time-worn glyphs that flickered like dying stars, whispering spells in forgotten tongues. Light from the fractured Heart of Avalon, suspended in the air like a soul frozen mid-scream, cast gold and violet across the stone. Magic was alive here—wild, coiled, waiting to pounce.

At the pedestal, three bowls sat: obsidian, silver, and bloodstone. Their surfaces glimmered faintly with runes too old to name. Within them stirred the false reflections of Genesis Seals. Arcane smoke drifted upward, curling like serpents, coiling toward the vaulted ceiling.

Douxie stood opposite, his stance sharp, the familiar rhythm of confidence hidden behind the subtle tension in his shoulders. His staff, twisted with arcane circuits and etched wood, hummed faintly. “The true Genesis Seal lies beneath one bowl,” he said, fingers dancing over the strings of his guitar-staff. “Choose. But choose with more than pride.”

Flames stirred in Bellroc’s palms, glowing with a slow, seething burn. He stepped forward like a storm walking in human shape. The fire of his eyes clashed with the cold echoing from Skrael’s form beside him, who moved with the stillness of an endless winter.

Bellroc’s voice rolled from his chest, heavy with iron and fire. “We are not children lost in shadowed woods, wizard. The Seal shall sing to the one who knows its flame. I will not be fooled by mortal parlor tricks.”

Skrael’s breath misted the air, pale frost fanning from beneath his steps. His tone was slower, quieter, but cut like a glacier’s edge. “Flame that burns too quickly forgets to illuminate. The tongue of fire may mistake its own roar for wisdom.”

Bellroc shot him a look, but said nothing.

The silent mage of the Order—watcher of flame and frost alike—stood motionless. Between them, the three bowls pulsed in rhythm with the chamber’s ancient heartbeat.

Bellroc extended his hand over the bloodstone bowl, the runes on his forearm flickering. “It calls to me.”

“Perhaps,” Skrael murmured, “because it was meant to. That which sings loudest is often the echo of a trap.”

But Bellroc was already moving. With a sound like magma cracking through ancient stone, he pressed his palm to the bowl.

The reaction was immediate.

Light exploded from the runes, slashing the shadows apart with jagged bursts. The bowl shuddered and then shattered—its false contents erupting into a spiral of time-energy. The room screamed as the trap activated.

Magic surged, cords of light weaving around the four figures—Bellroc, Skrael, Douxie, and the silent mage—binding them in a crystalline sphere of shifting light. The chamber vanished, and with it, the present.

Time bent. Then it broke.

The world dissolved into a vortex of fractured glass. Slivers of past and future danced around them—empires rising and crumbling in flashes, stars dying and being born in whispers. Within the sphere, gravity was lost. Thought stretched. Voices echoed from across centuries.

Bellroc’s arms flared outward, trying to stabilize himself. Fire twisted around his form like a second skin, but it offered no clarity. “What madness is this?” he thundered.

Skrael drifted beside him, ice lining his arms. “A loop. Eternal and cruel. A melody repeating its final note. We are caught in a hymn not our own.”

They fell again—gravity shifting. Below them, castle towers shimmered into view. Knights in silver and crimson strode the battlements. The sky above was marbled with stormclouds.

Within the time sphere, all four braced.

The fire god’s jaw clenched.

The frost mage’s eyes narrowed.

And time spun once more.

The time trap was set. The game was on.