Time is not the immutable cornerstone of the universe, it is imprinted on the filaments of realness by mankind’s every breath and step, as each individual crafts their own perception of what passed, shaping what they deem as the present moment and envisioning what the future holds. Far from being an absolute, this sprig bent against the wind, is a malleable construct, both revolutionary in its potential and perilous in its implications.
The passage from day to night, registered through the vivid lens of hume sight as a natural cycle, obscures the truth: darkness is the innate state of this dimension, untouched by the spatial realm. Each mind is confined by the boundaries of what has been observed. From a straightforward perspective, this relentless arrow is paradoxically both relative and uncountable, yet it remains a reliable source for predictability. It narrates a story, and what has been written can offer glimpses of what is poised to occur.
Though easily measured, manipulated and controlled, time reveals itself as an inferior ontological entity. Yet, we are even more insignificant in comparison. From a higher dimension, one might witness the intricate threads connecting every point in space and time, crossing each other. It is not a matter of reversing these insubstantial threads, but understanding that distinct regions of time co-exists in a grand, overlapping here and now.
For some, devoid of objective, eternity manifests as a rigid sequence of events rather than a fluid continuum. If harnessed, it is quite possible to predict the currents within its ever-shifting flow, the strands tight and slack, depending on who’s watching and who’s waiting. The sheer number of variables and external influences render this task almost incomprehensible to limited intelligence, turning it difficult to reach any tangible reality. If truly internalized it can be seized to mold our simultaneities instead of succumbing to imposed fates. To passively wait for time change is to yield to the will of others, to fade into oblivion.
Cipher slipped into the reading room, his heart hammering like a tribal drum demanding to be heard. The door clicked shut behind him, the noise reverberating through the cold space like a solemn omen. The tense and unnerving atmosphere that Pierce, ever vigilant, had instilled in the establishment’s hall was sealed.
The soldier’s visits became a daily ritual, marked by more than just shared smoke with Amahd. Cipher often found him there—an old comrade whose steady gaze held a spark that flickered with something a young boy couldn’t quite read. Their conversations, though seemingly mundane, were laced with layers of unmissable undercurrent. They spoke of rebellions in the south and shifting alliances in the west, of current regimes Cipher witnessed, and others he’d learned of in whispers. But for all that was discussed, Pierce’s own origins were always absent—a mystery guarded with a silence so practiced it felt like part of his soul.
Cipher had tried to listen for clues, to detect something, anything, beneath Pierce’s composed exterior. The man’s unfaltering eyes held an intensity that belied his measured words. Each pause, every calculated drag of his mouth was chosen with precision as his presence, arranged with purpose. When he spoke, it was deliberate, as though he was planting seeds, cultivating ideas Amahd could only grasp at. The faint narrowing of his eyes behind the dense haze of smoke held a silent assessment where others might weave tales of heroism or missteps, he scrutinized without betraying his interlocutor.
In their brief glances, Cipher wondered if Amahd had any sense of the outsider's purpose here. One thing was certain; every nod from Pierce and every elusive smile from Amahd hinted at a buried understanding that Cipher wanted to unearth. It was a pact, a brotherhood forged in the dangerous territory of intellect, one that left Cipher at the threshold of something profound and dark—an inheritance of secrets he had yet to claim.
He moved with deliberate grace, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet, as if the very room demanded silence and reverence. The air was thick with the scent of cedar and iron, evoking a sense of tradition and history that now seemed overshadowed by uncertainty. Even the slightest groan of the floor seemed amplified, a reminder of the unsolved riddles that churned in his guts, stirring up memories, some peculiar, others haunting. The strange and uneasy beat of past and present pulsing in his temples, a meeting in restless confrontation, like the incessant murmurs of spirits, refusing to be laid to eternal rest.
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A large, ornate slab of mahogany dominated the center of the frigid chamber, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen, cluttered with books, scrolls, and intricate artifacts. This was Amahd’s domain, where he sorted the significant from the trivial, the valuable from the mere scraps. Waqar’s discerning eyes, a legacy of his lineage, were crucial in spotting what others might overlook. Cipher approached it slowly, his eyes scanning the altar. He’d often been asked to assist in these delicate deliberations, watching as Amahd’s fingers, honed by years of experience, skimmed the pages and scrolls, searching for clues only he seemed to understand.
Among the scattered items, one book stood out—a volume with yellowish lettering, though aged and barely legible, glowed in the dim light with an almost unnatural luster, as if it were waiting for him, demanding to know his intent. He reached out and picked it up, feeling the weight in his hands like a challenge.
“The Codex of Blightning,” he whispered, the name rolling off his tongue like a weighty curse. The words tasted heavy, almost bitter, as an electric surge of curiosity intertwined with a visceral unease coiled in his stomach. The leather-bound cover revealed intricate diagrams and complex writings in a language he could not comprehend. His mouth went dry as he scanned the spine. “Who left this here?” He muttered, more to himself than anyone. Amahd would never have overlooked a volume like this. And it was no ordinary book. As he groped the embossed characters, Cipher felt an intimate connection, as though the very words were reaching out to him, resonating with something deep and primal within his soul. The Codex spoke of ancient powers and primordial energies that had prowled the land of Ivazmil long before humes had drawn their first breath. Cipher’s heart raced, pounding harder as the weight of its implications settled upon him like a shroud. He recoiled for a moment, his instincts screaming for caution, aware that The Codex did not merely contain knowledge; it pulsated with life—old, vicious life that hungered for something, or perhaps someone.
He traced the thin, curling lines with his finger, unable to decipher their meaning but sensing the gravity nestled within these brittle pages. The text also hinted at a precarious balance—a delicate connection between this plane and a shadowy place known as Vanaeon. The vocable loomed on the page, inked in dark, jagged letters, its contours obscured. A reference to a realm as morbid as the thrumming through the bones of the world, a terrifying locus of nightmares and unsuspecting victims it devoured whole. No one with an ounce of sense would ever want to wander too far into its grasp. Cipher knew he should fear. And yet, as he stared at the book in his hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had found him.
Suddenly, a frosty draft swept through the room, snuffling out the warmth of the candles in an instant. Cipher snapped his head toward the source, every instinct on high alert, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The shadows around him seemed to elongate, as if something unseen was stirring within the darkness, reshaping the room into a labyrinth of unknown threats. His eyes darted to the far side of the room, where the air was noticeably colder, disturbed by an unsettling presence—a watchful gaze that pierced straight through him, sending an icy chill down his spine. He strained to catch even the faintest sound, but the room had succumbed to an oppressive silence, a silence so deep it felt as though the very walls were holding their breath. Whatever was here with him didn’t belong in this world, it was something that had crossed the threshold between reality and madness. With a steady hand, he closed The Codex, the soft thud of the cover sealing shut the only sound in the stillness. Uncle Ismaihl should know about Pierce as soon as possible. His resolve hardened, his mind sharpening for whatever was about to unfold. The stalker force defied explanation and pressed down on him.
“You’re late.” Za’ayd’s voice was cold from the far side of the table. Cipher nodded, his throat dry once again. “Had to be sure I wasn’t followed.”
Za’ayd’s eyes narrowed, scanning Cipher with a scrutiny that made him feel transparent. “We don’t have much time. Did you get it?”
The thrill of the hunt still buzzed in his veins, yet he knew this was merely the beginning. Thank Prospera, it appeared in time. Cipher handed over the book, watching as Za’ayd’s eyes flickered with a rare glint of approval.
“The Codex.” Za’ayd muttered, almost reverently, as he unfolded the delicate pages. “This changes everything.”
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