Hagen closed his eyes, letting the sounds around him fade away. The billowing of the prophet’s cloak, the rippling of the water, the whoosh of airstreams, and the rumble of tumbling stones all melted into the tick, tick, tick of the world clock.

A tempo ever changing, yet so slow that it appeared steady.

With each tick, Hagen felt the magic surge and fall inside him. Quarter notes. He split his energy into eighth notes, and although the beat of the world clock remained the same, he felt his heart beat twice as fast.

He heard footsteps beside him.

“This one is of a resolute heart,” the prophet said.

Hagen opened one eye to observe Jeso, his fellow Princcair. Jeso was kneeling on the prayer carpet as well, hands folded, face stone cold. He was the wiser of the two.

The prophet continued, “He knows what must be done, but his moral compass has turned too far to be salvaged. It will lead to his triumph, or his demise.”

Hagen and Jeso had been kneeling on this carpet for half an hour, nearly three-hundred ticks of the world clock. They had come to seek advice on how to restore the king’s power, to secure his reign and stabilize the kingdom that was being torn apart by the war between the Stringsandens and the Windorens.

“This one is in turmoil. He knows not what must be done, yet will see it through nonetheless. His compass wavers. It will lead him down a path of no return, or bring him into the light.”

Hagen raised an eyebrow but let the world clock eclipse all other emotions. At his waist, the battle clock hummed with energy. A silver sphere the size of a fist, it didn’t seem like the thing that would be used to fight wars, and yet if it was thrown down, it would instantly kill the prophet, and kill Jeso and Hagen themselves if they didn’t react quick enough.

The battle clock was hidden in a flimsy pocket. Weapons weren’t allowed inside the temple, but with the war raging, this was a necessary precaution.

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“What do you seek, Princcairs?” the prophet inquired. All three of them knew, but the question was required to complete the ritual.

“The relics of Yaar,” Jeso replied. “The officiators of the king’s legitimacy.”

Hagen’s ears plugged as the water around them began to vibrate. He pictured the room in his mind: cracked stone pillars, a mosaic floor, giant strands of seaweed dangling from the ceiling, and a marble altar in the center.

And of course, on that altar: the Direckoner Orb, which was currently sifting the reality around them through the second and third realms. No one except the prophets knew what they looked like. This kind of magic was beyond the scope of even Princcairs.

The vibrating eventually stopped and the prophet beckoned for Hagen and Jeso to open their eyes. The room looked like it had never changed.

“The relics still exist. One in Mount March, one in the Ashen Library, and one in the Burg.” The prophet slid his hands into the sleeves of his black robe. “That is all I can see.”

Hagen turned to Jeso. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us.”

Jeso nodded. “I’ll contact the other Princcairs. I’m sure His Majesty will let them leave their stations.”

“Why not just get the gang?” Hagen said. “They’re more than capable.”

Hagen expected Jeso to brighten up at the mention of their old friends, but the fellow Princcair furrowed his eyebrows.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen some of them,” Jeso said.

“It’ll be poetic,” Hagen said. “Us coming back together for one final quest.”

“Are you implying that we all die after this?”

Hagen shrugged. “Perchance.”

Jeso rose from the prayer carpet. “We should discuss this outside.”

“Sure.” Hagen stood up as well.

However, he did not consider how the act of standing would shake up a certain pocket. Overturn it, even.

The battle clock tumbled out. Upon striking the ground, it shattered and filled the room with a purple mist. The tempo of the world clock sped up a-thousand-fold, nearly deafening Hagen. He and Jeso hummed a single pitch, and the sound waves cleared their minds.

In contrast, the prophet’s head exploded.