The temple had no entrance and no exit.At least, not in the sense that mortals understood movement.There were no doors—only a descent carved into black stone, eroded not by time but by something older, something inevitable.A spiral downward, a wound in living rock leading to the very heart of the Conclave of Time.
He descended with the other thirteen members.They did not walk; they followed the invisible echo of their own steps, the eternal reflection of every cycle before this one.Each time they descended, the same circular chamber awaited them.A place that had never been built but discovered—an existence at the margin of human architecture, embedded within the logic of time itself.
The vault of black stone rose above them like a dome of living shadows, pulsing softly with each breath of the universe.There were no artificial lights, no screens, no projectors.Only the faint bluish glow of inscriptions etched into the walls—texts only they could read, words burning with the quiet power of overlapping ages.
It was a sacred place, though not for gods.
At the center of the chamber, water reflected eternity within an ancient bronze basin.A liquid mirror where time twisted upon itself, vibrating with visions of futures and pasts interwoven.
Incense burned in copper braziers, curling upward in thick spirals that intertwined in the half-light.The smoke was dense, almost tangible, laced with the scent of ritual herbs that dulled the conscious mind and awakened deeper perception.On the walls, the shadows of the conclave flickered across carvings of ancient symbols—so ancient they belonged to civilizations erased eons ago.They were not mere inscriptions but living fragments of history itself, encoded in stone.
They had gathered before.They would gather again.They were gathering now.
The room was perfectly circular, without angles to disrupt the constant flow of time.Akrtrup stood at the center, head bowed over the bronze basin that held the ever-shifting reflection of destiny.The leader of the Conclave looked at no one, his gaze fixed upon the dark water where the future pulsed in incomprehensible patterns—born and dying in infinite succession.
He raised one hand, and the murmurs ceased.
"The cycle approaches its breaking point," he said, his voice solemn—not his own will speaking, but something vaster, more absolute."It has repeated so many times that it no longer seeks to resist."
A tremor passed through the chamber.Time had made its choice.
Rheda understood exactly what that meant.He had seen the timeline reach its fracture, and now they walked directly upon it.There was no return. No divergence.
"Every moment is an echo of itself," Akrtrup continued, his tone deep and resonant."What has been, shall be. What shall be, has already been."
Rheda bowed his head in acceptance, feeling his thoughts scatter between the immediate present and visions that came unbidden.
He was there, in the half-light.Sitting against the wall, head lowered—not a man seeking to understand, but one enduring the weight of destiny.
Soro.
A sacred fire of devotion filled Rheda's chest.He was the chosen one, though he could not yet comprehend it. Not yet.
Rheda had seen him before.He had seen him after.
His hand trembled, and when he lowered it, he felt the sticky warmth of blood between his fingers.
No.Not now.Or perhaps yes.Everything was happening at once.
The ritual continued.The others followed, but Rheda was divided—each part of him inhabiting a different point in the cycle.
He glanced at the walls, at those ancient symbols that contained stories untold.How many times had they stood here?How many times would they repeat it again?
Akrtrup lifted the bronze basin, and its surface began to twist, deforming into impossible images—things that should not exist in water.
Rheda saw the fall.He saw the rebirth.He saw blood running slowly through the cracks in the stone.He saw the eternal instant where everything stopped.
He inhaled deeply, trying to anchor himself to the present.But what was the present, if not an echo resonating through the void of something that had already happened?
No. He had been here before.He had spoken these same prayers.He had felt the same cold crawling down his spine, the same crushing pressure in his chest.But he was also before the ritual.And after it.
A tingling spread through his skin, as if he were about to dissolve into scattered fragments of time.
Akrtrup let a single drop of water fall upon the polished stone, and the sound echoed in Rheda's head like distant thunder.
The other members of the Conclave raised their hands, repeating the prayer in the language of the ancients—a tongue belonging not to one age, but to all.
Rheda moved his lips slowly, uncertain whether he was praying or simply repeating words spoken across countless previous cycles.
He looked to his left. The chamber was empty.No.Not now.
He blinked hard.The thirteen members of the Conclave stood again, hands raised, invoking the inevitable.
He closed his eyes, hoping time would realign.When he opened them again, Soro was still there, silent and unaware of the transcendence of that moment.
Akrtrup was watching him now, their gazes locking.He had seen it too. But he said nothing.
The prayer ended, and the echo of their voices lingered in the chamber, suspended in the air like drifting ash.
The cycle continued.
A final thought struck Rheda with painful clarity:What if this moment was nothing but a remembered future, something that had not yet happened but was already defined?What difference was there between remembering and foreseeing, when time itself was only a wheel turning without end?
The answer drifted through his mind like incense smoke—intangible, impossible to grasp.
He looked again at Soro.The man remained seated, silent, oblivious to his inevitable fate.
Rheda wondered if, someday, he too would understand what they already knew.Or perhaps ignorance was his only defense.
The ceremony ended at last.They left in silence, abandoning the temple that had never been built.And as Rheda ascended the black stone spiral, he knew with devastating certainty that he would soon descend those same steps again.
Over and over.
For the temple had no entrance and no exit.Only endless cycles, repeating through all eternity.