The world had not yet completed its rebirth.
Although light had pierced the darkness and the shadows had accepted the new reality, space itself remained unstable. It was as if an unseen hand had not yet finished shaping its outlines.
Emiren, Flamen, and those who had been born in darkness stood amidst the chaos of creation. The ground beneath their feet shifted—one moment solid, the next dissolving into mist. The sky changed colors, as if still deciding what it should be.
— We are not alone, — Flamen suddenly said, his voice tense.
Emiren felt it at the same moment.
The space around them shuddered, and from the void, figures began to emerge. They came from the past, from memories, from the depths of lost worlds.
The Wardens of Time.
They looked as if they had once been human, but time had left its mark on them. Their faces shifted, their eyes glowed, and their bodies were made of fragments of the past.
— You have altered the flow, — a voice spoke, crackling like the rustling of old parchment.
Emiren stepped forward.
— It was the only way.
One of the Wardens moved closer. His fingers were thin, like the branches of a withered tree, and in his eyes swirled the reflections of once-forgotten worlds.
— Those who change the flow must remember the consequences.
Flamen ignited again, ready to fight.
— We are not your enemies, — said another Warden.
— Then what do you want? — Emiren asked.
The Warden at the front waved a hand through the air, and before them, a vision of the future unfolded.
A Garden Dying.
The trees of the Eternal Garden, which had once expanded endlessly, forming infinite streams of time, were now withering. Their leaves turned to ash, and their branches snapped under the weight of oblivion.
— This is what will happen if balance is not restored, — the Warden explained.
Emiren felt something cold tighten around his heart.
— We created a world where everyone can choose, — he said.
— But choice without memory is chaos, — the other Warden replied.
Flamen stared at the image of the dying Garden, his hands clenching into fists.
— What must we do?
The Wardens looked at one another, then answered in unison:
— Find the Source.
The Mystery of the Source
— What is the Source? — Flamen asked.
— The beginning of the first stream, — the Warden replied.
— And it still exists? — Emiren asked doubtfully.
— If time exists, so does its origin, — the Warden responded.
The light around them dimmed, as if space itself was waiting for their decision.
— Where do we find it? — Emiren asked.
The Wardens took a step back, and before them, three gates appeared.
The First — The Silver Gate. It shone as if made of pure moonlight.
The Second — The Shadow Gate. It seemed like a reflection on water, unstable, ever-shifting.
The Third — The Stone Gate. Ancient, cracked, covered in symbols no one could decipher.
— Only one path leads to the Source, — said the Warden.
Emiren, Flamen, and Those Born of Darkness stood before the choice.
The world held its breath.