Orlan's hut reeked of burnt herbs. Jack stood shirtless before a cracked mirror, watching his reflection age ten years in ten seconds. His hair had gone snow white; his veins pulsed black under his skin.
"This isn't natural," Orlan muttered, tossing vials of glowing liquid into a cauldron. "The fragments are leaching your lifespan."
Jack snorted. "Says the guy who sold me out to the Inquisition."
"Correction—they paid me in anti-aging serum." Orlan gestured to shelves of preserved organs in jars. "But we need to stabilize your resonance before your heart explodes."
A fist pounded the door. "Open in the name of the Light!"
Orlan shoved a vial into Jack's hand. "Drink. It'll hide your aura."
The liquid tasted like melted pennies. Instantly, Jack's vision blurred. He watched Orlan's face twist into something serpentine—horns sprouting, eyes glowing violet.
"Inquisitor Malakar," the fake Orlan hissed, revealing serrated fangs. "You shouldn't have trusted him."
Jack lunged, but his body felt leaden. The fake Orlan's clawed hand closed around his throat—until the vial shattered. Realization hit like lightning: Orlan had drugged him!
Jack's fragments erupted. Time fractured. He saw three possible futures:
The fake Orlan's claws piercing his heart
Malakar's holy fire reducing the hut to ash
A third path—
He snapped his fingers.
Time snapped back. The fake Orlan staggered backward, clutching his head. "Impossible! You rewound—"
Jack didn't wait. He grabbed Orlan's hidden dagger and plunged it into the imposter's chest. Purple ichor spattered across the walls as the fake disintegrated into smoke.
The real Orlan lay broken on the floor, his left arm twisted at an unnatural angle. "You... used a year of your life to do that," he wheezed.
Outside, church bells tolled midnight. Jack stared at his hand—where the dagger handle had left a permanent black scar in the shape of a broken gear.