The cobblestone streets of Mnemosyne's outer districts echoed with the pounding of boots and urgent shouts. Elden, once a respected Remembrancer, now a fugitive, darted through shadowy alleys and crowded marketplaces. His heart raced not just from exertion, but from the weight of his actions and the newfound burden of being hunted.
As he rounded a corner, Elden nearly collided with a group of city guards. He ducked behind a merchant's stall, pulse thundering in his ears as the guards passed by, their eyes scanning the crowd. The merchant, a portly man with a bushy beard, eyed Elden suspiciously.
"You there," the merchant called out, reaching for something beneath his counter. "Aren't you—"
Panic surged through Elden. Without thinking, he wove a quick memory spell, golden threads dancing at his fingertips.
The merchant's eyes glazed over, his sentence trailing off into confused muttering. Guilt twisted in Elden's stomach as he slipped away, the promise he'd made to himself—never to use memory magic on the unwilling—now twice broken in the span of a day.
"It's necessary," Elden whispered to himself, trying to quell the rising tide of self-loathing. "Just until I'm safe."
But even as he thought it, a part of him wondered: would there ever truly be a "safe" again?
Elden's flight took him through winding streets and bustling squares. Every face seemed to harbor suspicion, every glance a potential threat. He passed a town crier reading from a freshly printed broadsheet, and his blood ran cold as he caught snippets of the announcement.
"...Elden Vortis, wanted for the murder of High Remembrancer Edward Vortis... Extremely dangerous... Reward for information leading to his capture..."
Whispers rippled through the crowd, and Elden saw several heads turn in his direction. He pulled his hood lower and quickened his pace, ducking into a narrow alley.
---
The dying light of day painted the sky in hues of orange and purple as Elden Vortis stumbled through the Whispering Plains. His legs ached from days of relentless travel, and his Wellspring felt hollow, drained by the constant use of magic to cover his tracks and create disguises.
The weight of his new reality pressed down on him like a physical force – he was no longer the promising young Remembrancer, heir to the legacy of the High Remembrancer. Now, he was a fugitive, branded a murderer and traitor to everything he held dear.
"Seek out the Soulsinger in Empyrea," his father's voice echoed, a haunting reminder of his mission. But the path to Empyrea was fraught with danger. Elden's lessons from youth surfaced, the detailed maps his father had shown him coming to life in his mind’s eye. Mnemosyne lay to the east, and beyond that, the treacherous Whispering Plains stretched endlessly, leading to the Spire Mountains and eventually, Empyrea.
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As night fell, Elden built a small fire, carefully shielded from view by a weave of air magic. He foraged for some berries and edible bark, grimacing at the meager meal.
"What's happening to me?" he whispered, staring at his trembling hands.
The words hung in the air, unanswered. Elden had felt something shift within him ever since that fateful moment in the Remembrancer’s Hall, during the practical exam demonstration. As he stood before the examiners, struggling to stabilize a complex weave of memory and elemental magic, time had seemed to bend to the force of his Wellspring. The frantic chaos of the room faded into stillness, and in that unnatural calm, his mind had found clarity.
But when the moment passed, Elden had been left shaken, unsure of what had just occurred.
He hadn’t had time to dwell on it then. His focus had been on passing the exam, proving himself worthy of his mother's legacy. But now, with nothing but the endless plains and his haunted thoughts for company, the questions loomed large.
He had first called it “chrono magic” in his mind, needing some way to define the undefinable. The name felt right, capturing the essence of the strange power that had saved him time and again.
Could it be one of the abstract magics? Those rare, often unique forms of magic that defied easy classification?
Elden's mind raced with possibilities. He thought back to his lessons on magical theory, trying to derive some principles that might explain this new power. Chrono magic was powerful, more powerful than anything he had encountered. Yet, it was a power that drained his Wellspring far more quickly than any other magic in his memories.
As dawn broke, Elden stood and stretched, his muscles protesting after a night spent in contemplation. He looked out over the Whispering Plains, seeing them with new eyes.
With renewed purpose, Elden set off towards the distant smudge on the horizon that he knew to be Whispervale.
---
Back in Mnemosyne, Mnemion paced furiously in his chambers. The escape of Elden Vortis was a disaster, one that could unravel all of his carefully laid plans.
With trembling hands, he activated a secret communication device, one that would reach across vast distances to contact a particular member of the Hands of Time.
"Dusk," Mnemion's voice wavered slightly. "I need your... unique skills. Elden Vortis has escaped. He must be found and brought back – alive."
There was a pause, then a voice like whispered shadows replied, "And why should I involve myself in your failure, Mnemion?"
Mnemion swallowed hard. "Because I can offer you … a chance to see yourself as you once were, before The Shattering changed you."
The silence that followed was deafening. Mnemion knew he had struck a chord. Dusk had been irrevocably altered by The Shattering. His very essence had begun to fade, leaving him trapped between existence and oblivion.
Finally, Dusk spoke, his voice tinged with a emotion Mnemion had never heard from him before – hope. "You can do this? You can show me... myself?"
"I've created a memory artifact," Mnemion explained quickly. "It contains a perfect reflection of your past self. It's yours, if you bring me Elden Vortis."
"Consider it done," Dusk replied, his voice already fading.
As the communication ended, Mnemion allowed himself a small smile, but it did not reach his eyes. The promise he had made was half-truth, half-lie, much like everything in this shattered world.