The Foreboding of Collapse
The cold silence enveloped the ruins of the Silver Tree. The trees, once weaving the threads of reality, now stood as silent silhouettes, their branches cracking under the strain of scattered time. The wind swept through them, carrying fragments of voices from those long erased from existence.
Emiren stood on the very edge of the abyss, gazing into the void where space no longer had meaning.
“We can’t stop it,” murmured Watery. “Not here.”
Someone stood among the fragments.
The figure appeared suddenly, as if it had always been here, but only now could they see it. Tall, cloaked in shadow, it almost did not reflect light, as if woven from the night itself.
Emiren clenched his fists.
“Who are you?”
The figure remained motionless. Only the wind passed through its form, breaking into tiny currents.
“You’ve already seen the echoes,” the voice finally spoke. Hoarse, as though broken by time. “But not all echoes are equal.”
Emiren could feel his mind colliding with something invisible.
“You are not one of them.”
“No. I am what remains when a choice is not made.”
Flamen stepped forward, fire flaring up in his palms.
“What do you want?”
The figure tilted its head.
“To ask. Have you come here to make a choice?”
Emiren did not answer immediately.
“If we don’t choose, everything will fall apart.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s just another illusion.”
Its voice sounded like a distant echo, dissolving in the endless cracks of reality.
Then the world shuddered.
Fragments of the Possible
The sky split open, and through the cracks, fragments fell. Not just stone or remnants of the Eternal Garden — but fragments of possibilities. Each of them shimmered with images — futures that could have come to pass, but never did.
Emiren raised his hand, and one of the fragments landed in his palm. In it, he saw another life. He saw himself, but not as he was now. A different path, different choices. In that reflection, he stood in the midst of a blooming Garden, where Eternity was whole.
“What does this mean?” Watery asked, lifting a fragment that reflected endless, empty darkness.
The figure among the fragments spoke again:
“Eternity is not singular. It never was singular. You are merely seeing it from another angle.”
Flamen released his fragment, and it vanished into the air.
“But what do we do with this?”
“Choose.”
Emiren clenched the fragment in his palm.
He could feel it. The power of choice.
A choice that could either revive Eternity or destroy it once and for all.
And as the world cracked around them, he understood: there could be no more delay.
Time for an Answer
The figure drew closer, and the space around it seemed motionless.
“If you wish to restore Eternity, you must understand its essence.”
Emiren raised his head.
“It was a garden. We know that.”
“But a garden needs roots,” the figure replied.
Flamen frowned.
“And you want to say we lost the roots?”
“You ripped them out when you chose to fight.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any words.
Emiren recalled the battles, how they had shattered the time nodes, destroyed enemies, how they had altered the very fabric of reality.
“We had no choice,” whispered Watery.
“But now you do.”
Emiren knew it was true.
He opened his fist, and the fragment of possibility turned to dust, scattering in the wind.
“We must find the roots,” he said.
The figure did not respond.
It simply began to vanish, dissolving into its own shadow.
“Where are they?” Emiren asked.
Before it vanished completely, the voice echoed one last time:
“Where time has not yet begun.”
The world shuddered again.
And they knew where they needed to go.