Chapter 11: Chapter 11

“You're serious?” Ananke asks, her eyes fixed on the extremely old-fashioned uniform being presented to her. The formal dress with its elaborate bustle and oversized ribbon tied at the back looks like something from a different decade entirely. Which, she realises with growing dread, it probably is.

“Oh yes, very,” her master replies with characteristic cheerfulness. “In light of my concerns about your social isolation, this represents quite an elegant addition to your training.” He holds up the antique garment with obvious satisfaction. “You'll experience the wider world, meet peers your own age, and practise social skills that I worry Larry is… corrupting.” His tone carries subtle judgement as he glances toward the door where Larry had recently departed.

“But I'm achieving perfect results in every lesson Chronomancer Jandal gives me!” she argues, desperation creeping into her voice. The thought of leaving the Crux, of being separated from her master and the familiar rhythms of her training, fills her with unexpected anxiety.

“Then it will be no trouble for you to excel at your coursework there,” her master assures her with infuriating logic. Ananke opens her mouth to retort but finds herself speechless.

They want to send her back in time to attend a magical academy where apprentices from all schools of magic receive their theoretical education alongside their peers.

“I thought you enjoyed scholarly learning,” he continues, tilting his head with apparent confusion. “I had assumed you would be absolutely thrilled by this opportunity, quite frankly.”

“I- I suppose I am,” Ananke replies, though her tone suggests anything but enthusiasm. “I guess it's just…“ She rubs the back of her head awkwardly. “I'm not really good with people my own age.” The admission feels strange on her tongue. She has no difficulty conversing with her master or any of the other chronomancers, despite their vast differences in age and experience. But when it comes to forming friendships or engaging in casual conversation with people who should theoretically share her concerns and interests, she finds herself at a complete loss.

He places a gentle hand on her shoulder, his expression growing more serious. “I have complete faith in your abilities,” he says with conviction. “In many of our future objectives, social confidence will be required to position the necessary pieces properly. Consider this infiltration an aspect of your training rather than a punishment.”

She sighs deeply, accepting the inevitable. “Fine, but do I really have to wear this particular outfit?” she asks, staring at the dress with obvious distaste.

“Why, I think it's quite fashionable, personally,” he replies in all seriousness, examining the garment he's holding toward her with his other hand as if it were the height of contemporary style.

“…Master, exactly how old are you?” Ananke asks, leaning closer to study his perpetually shadowed face with new curiosity.

He takes a deliberate step backward, dropping the dress into her waiting hands. “You'll find a method of returning home in your wardrobe,” he explains, deliberately avoiding her question. “We've already arranged everything to fall into place seamlessly. Your lessons will begin immediately. Return home when you've finished for the day. Enjoy yourself!” The enthusiasm in his voice sounds very sincere.

“Wait, what do you mean by imm-?” she begins.

There’s a loud snapping.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

A second later, Ananke finds herself standing in a massive assembly hall filled with the sound of hundreds of conversations happening simultaneously. The space around her bustles with what appears to be some sort of introductory ceremony for new students. A bronze bell rings somewhere above, its tone cutting through the general chatter. She looks down at herself in horror, already wearing the antiquated dress. She wants to be mortified by her appearance, but every other girl in the hall is dressed identically, which lessens the pain at least a little. The male students wear more formal, military-inspired uniforms with brass buttons and structured collars.

Someone bumps into her roughly, sending her stumbling sideways.

There's a loud clattering as a pile of books crashes to the polished floor, their pages fluttering open as they scatter. “Oh, I'm so sorry!” a voice apologises frantically. “I didn't see you there!”

Ananke looks around, startled, to see a young priestess initiate of the Holy Church struggling to collect her fallen books amidst the flow of bodies. Her awkwardly cut raven-black hair escapes from beneath her billowing white hood as she scrambles to gather her belongings before they can be trampled by the passing crowd. Ananke immediately kneels to help, but one tome gets swept away beneath the tide of feet. A student's boot presses down hard on the cover, tearing it completely away from the binding.

“Oh no,” the priestess says with genuine distress, staring at the damaged book as if she might actually cry as she picks it up. Her eyes fill with tears that threaten to spill over.

A sharp pang of guilt pierces Ananke's chest. “Wait, let me see that,” she says quickly, taking the ruined book from the distraught girl. She turns her body to shield her actions from the surrounding crowd, clutching the tome against her chest while secretly focusing her chronomantic abilities on the damaged object alone. She reverses time locally around the book, watching as the torn cover mends itself and reverts to its pristine state from ten minutes earlier.

With a bright smile, Ananke hands the restored book back to the priestess. “There! Good as new!”

The priestess stares in amazement at the perfectly repaired tome, turning it over in her hands to examine the flawless binding. “…How did you do that?” she asks in wonder. “Thank you so much!” She opens the cover experimentally, testing the restored connection.

“It wasn't as badly damaged as it appeared,” Ananke replies casually, deliberately keeping her explanation vague to avoid revealing too much about her abilities.

Suddenly, a high, sharp voice cuts through their conversation from behind. “Excuse me,” calls a long, thin older woman in a severe black dress who resembles a withered, branchless tree bent by storms. Her hair is absurdly wide and puffy, creating a stark contrast to her skeletal frame. Ananke feels a firm hand grasp her shoulder as both she and the priestess are seized by cold fingers. “You are both fully aware that magical practice within academy grounds is strictly forbidden,” the woman states with authority rather than asks. “Don't attempt to deceive me. I can clearly see the residual energy in the air.” Her tone suggests she deals with such infractions regularly.

Ananke swallows hard, panic rising in her throat. Her master had neglected to warn her about this restriction, but it's obvious that no one can discover she's a chronomancer. Her school of magic doesn't officially exist as far as the general public knows in the present day, let alone back whenever this is. She opens her mouth, stuttering incoherently as she searches for an explanation.

But then the priestess steps forward courageously. “It was me, Headmistress,” she lies without hesitation. The older woman's head snaps toward her with predatory focus. “I collided with her and caused her to fall, so I felt obligated to heal her injuries,” the priestess fabricates, confessing to the supposed crime. “I sincerely apologise, Headmistress.” She bows her head in submission.

There's a loud, sharp crack as a wooden ruler materialises seemingly from nowhere and strikes down across the priestess's skull. The crowd around them turns to stare at the public discipline. “So you believe your personal feelings supersede the safety of everyone present, you little wretch? Is that correct?” the headmistress demands with vicious authority.

“No, Headmistress,” the priestess apologises meekly, bracing herself for another blow.

Ananke discreetly swirls a finger inside her pocket, focusing her temporal manipulation on the ruler in the woman's raised hand. She ages the wooden implement's center point rapidly, causing the material to weaken and become brittle. The ruler snaps in half with a satisfying crack, the broken pieces flying off into the crowd of students just as she lifts it into the air.

The headmistress stares at the broken implement in confusion, assuming she must have struck too forcefully. She pauses, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, and sniffs the air as if detecting something unusual. Ananke freezes, quickly hiding her hands behind her back as the administrator's gaze fixes on her. A small, satisfied smile plays at the corners of her mouth despite her best efforts to suppress it.

“You find this amusing?” the headmistress asks with dangerous quiet.

“I, uh-” Ananke stammers, though she actually does find the situation quite entertaining. She has no idea how to handle this confrontation. The cracked smile remains stubbornly on her face, refusing to disappear despite her attempts to control it.

“’I, uh’,” the headmistress parrots mockingly, looming over both girls with intimidating presence. “Very well. I see I'll have to make examples of you both.” She sheathes the broken ruler with sharp efficiency as if it were a killing blade and seizes both students by their ears with painful grips. “You're both receiving formal disciplinary reports, and you'll be cleaning the auditorium alone tonight. Perhaps that will teach you proper manners and respect for academy rules.”

She begins dragging them away from the crowd, their ears burning from her iron grip as students part to let the procession pass.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

Many hours have passed since their initial encounter with authority.

The 'National Boarding Academy of Magical Practitioners' had subjected them to an exceedingly long and tedious introductory ceremony fitting to its name of the same decorum, filled with pompous speeches from faculty members, awkward magical demonstrations from current students trying too hard to impress, and a seemingly endless tour of the academy's sprawling grounds. The afternoon had dragged on with the relentless pace of bureaucratic necessity, each moment feeling longer than the last as administrators droned about rules, expectations, and the glorious traditions of theoretical magical education.

Given the wide varieties of magics available in the world and the inability to control so many variables, all practical magical training is strictly to be handled by the students’ masters outside of the academy. The school itself is strictly only for theoretical education, a rule they enforce very strictly.

Everyone else had been permitted to participate in the magnificent feast held in the main dining hall once the formal festivities concluded. Tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, and delicacies that made Ananke's mouth water from the distant aromas that reached even their place of exile. But she and the priestess had been excluded from such luxuries, their punishment extending beyond mere labour.

Now Ananke and the young priestess stand together inside the massive auditorium, which has been transformed from a place of ceremony into a disaster zone. Chairs lie overturned in chaotic heaps, papers litter the floor like fallen leaves, and mud from hundreds of boots has been tracked across every surface. The aftermath of a day filled with excited students and harried faculty presents an overwhelming tableau of destruction. Each girl holds a broom, the wooden handles worn smooth by countless previous punishments.

“I'm really sorry I got you into this,” Ananke says, surveying the monumental task before them with growing dismay.

The priestess shakes her head firmly. “It was my fault entirely. I truly didn't see you there when I was rushing through the crowd.” Ananke feels a pang of guilt, knowing there was no way the priestess even could have anticipated her sudden materialisation. She had been literally transported into the reality directly in front of her without warning.

“Why did you lie to her about the magic?” Ananke asks, genuine curiosity colouring her voice. She lifts an eyebrow. “You didn't need to protect me. Isn't deception against the fundamental rules for a priestess?”

The young priestess gives her a pointed side-eye. “Dishonesty should be against the rules for everyone,” she suggests, raising an eyebrow in turn as she studies Ananke with obvious judgement. “And yes, it absolutely is forbidden for those of my order. But so is abandoning someone who helped you when they face trouble. Sometimes we must choose the lesser evil to do what's truly right in the end.” She sighs with the weariness of someone far older than her apparent years. “Come along. We'd better begin working if we want to finish before dawn arrives.” She starts sweeping together a heap of scattered papers.

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Ananke nods quietly and moves to begin her own section but then stops. She looks back at the priestess and extends her hand. “What's your name? I'm Ananke.”

The priestess glances at the offered hand suspiciously, as if it might be some kind of trap. They stand frozen in that position for several heartbeats before she finally accepts the gesture. “What an unusual name. Are you from foreign lands?” she asks, studying Ananke’s features with careful attention. “My name is Petersilie.”

Ananke blinks in confusion. “Huh?” If anything, that name sounds far more exotic than her own.

The priestess rolls her eyes with practised resignation. “Yes, yes, I know it's strange. The Arkonian church always names us initiates after plants and herbs,” she explains with obvious frustration. “We must forsake our birth names when we don the sacred robes and take our vows.”

“…Arkonia?” Ananke asks, the word hitting her like a physical blow.

Petersilie looks up at her with growing confusion. “Did that woman strike you on the head instead of me?” she asks, studying Ananke with uncertainty. “Where else would you expect to be?” She sighs and returns to her cleaning with renewed vigour.

Ananke looks around the auditorium with new eyes, the realisation crashing over her like a cold wave. She's in Arkonia, the enemy nation that waged brutal war against her homeland. These are the people who destroyed countless cities and killed so many innocents, including her own family. But the timing suggests this is before those terrible events occurred. This must be the past, before the war that would consume everything she loved.

Her master obviously knew about this. She’ll be sure to have a word with him later.

“Well, don't just stand there staring. Help me,” Petersilie snaps with irritation. Ananke jolts back to awareness and quickly begins sweeping, her mind reeling from the implications of her location and era.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

The two of them work through the entire night, their brooms raising small clouds of dust as they tackle the overwhelming mess. Ananke considers using her temporal abilities multiple times to summon copies of herself for assistance but restrains herself whenever she spots the headmistress observing them from the upper galleries, clearly waiting for any excuse to extend their punishment.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

By the time dawn light begins filtering through the tall windows, they have barely finished their assigned task. Both girls are exhausted and filthy, their formal uniforms now stained with dirt and sweat. They look at each other with the hollow-eyed weariness of shared suffering.

“Well, Ananke,” Petersilie says, leaning heavily on her broom handle. “It was pleasant meeting you, but I believe it's time for us to part ways. I'm absolutely exhausted and would very much like to rest. I haven't even secured lodgings yet.” She sighs deeply. “I suspect all the desirable rooms have been claimed by now.”

“Lodgings?” Ananke asks, the concept foreign to her.

Petersilie studies her with growing concern. “Are you feeling quite well? This is a boarding academy. It’s in the name,” she explains slowly, as if speaking to someone with impaired comprehension. “Did your master provide you with no information before abandoning you here like an unwanted urchin at the church steps?”

“…Something like that,” Ananke mutters, glancing away with embarrassment. Now that the priestess mentions it, her master had said something about a wardrobe that would transport her back to the Crux.

“Don't you worry about such arrangements,” says a third voice that seems to materialise from the shadows themselves. Both girls jump as the headmistress appears behind them without warning, her gaunt form looming over them like a predatory bird. “I'm afraid you're quite correct, Miss Petersilie. All spaces in the boarding houses are, unfortunately, completely occupied.” Her tone carries false sympathy. “After all, rooms were assigned on a first-come-first-served basis following dinner, which was absolutely delicious, by the way.” She smiles with cruel pleasantness at them, her disdain for them evident despite her polite words. “But have no fear. I wouldn't be able to rest peacefully knowing that students under my care lacked proper accommodation.” Her smile widens unnaturally.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

“Enjoy your stay. I look forward to our association over the next several years, girls,” the headmistress says with false warmth. “Make yourselves completely at home.” The door slams shut behind them with a finality that echoes through the stone corridors.

Ananke and Petersilie find themselves in an underground chamber that exists at the furthest corner of the academy's lowest level, reached only after navigating several empty and rather terrifying hallways. A steep staircase of about ten steps descends directly from the door with no safety railing, leading down into a square, high-ceilinged space that clearly once served as a prison cell. Tiny barred windows near the ceiling provide meagre rays of light from ground level far above, completely beyond reach.

Two military-style cots are bolted to the crumbling, damp brick wall in a bunk bed configuration, while two ancient, rickety cabinets appear to have been discarded down the stairs rather than properly placed. The air feels damp and cold, carrying the musty smell of mildew and accumulated dust from years of neglect.

The two of them exchange glances that speak volumes about their shared predicament. “So, do you want the top or bottom bunk?” Ananke asks with forced cheerfulness.

The priestess, clearly exhausted, makes her way carefully down the treacherous staircase. “Top, please. I prefer the view, and there's less chance of encountering spiders up there,” she remarks, covering her face with her hands as she processes their awful accommodations.

The priestess takes off her robe, wearing a fluffy, very conservative layer of puffed-up old-world undergarments below that Ananke can’t help but stare at because she’s never seen anything like them outside of museum displays.

Ananke follows her down, guilt weighing heavily as she realises how thoroughly she's ruined this girl's fresh start at the academy. An audible growl from Petersilie's stomach punctuates the silence, reminding them both of the meal they missed.

The apprentice chronomancer approaches one of the discarded cabinets and opens it cautiously. Inside, she notices a distinct distortion in the air, the telltale shimmer of temporal magic that marks her passage home. She glances back over her shoulder at Petersilie, who has collapsed onto the bunk.

She climbs inside.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

A second later, Ananke disappears entirely. But instead of returning to the present-day Crux, she finds herself displaced to several months earlier in time.

She materialises inside a ventilation shaft in the Crux months earlier, looking down through the grate at a familiar scene. Below, she can see her past self pacing nervously, clearly distressed. This is from when she first arrived at the tower and the Twelve Hands were debating her fate. She leans closer to the opening.

“Hey,” she whispers softly. Her past self looks around in confusion before lifting her head toward the ornamental grate. “You want to know what they're discussing?” the current Ananke asks, carefully removing the metal covering and setting it down silently. She extends her hand downward. “Come up here. I can get you close enough to listen.”

“What are you?” her past self asks in amazement.

“I'm you, we're me. I came back to help,” she replies matter-of-factly, unfurling her fingers expectantly. “Give me that candy, and I'll pull you up.”

“Candy?” her past self mutters, examining the sweet in her palm. “Wait, why did you come back to help me?” The past Ananke grasps the offered hand, and her future self pulls her up into the vent. True to their agreement, she hands over the confection.

“No particular reason. I just wanted this,” the current Ananke replies casually, accepting the treat as she begins fading around the edges.

“Wait!” her past self whispers urgently. “What happens to us in the future? Why do we need the candy?”

Ananke regards her former self with confusion. “‘Need’?” she asks, the word muffled as she dissolves completely, leaving only the faint scent of temporal magic behind.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

Ananke emerges from the cabinet back in the dungeon-like room, approaching Petersilie, who is already lying on the bunk, staring at her with obvious bewilderment. “Dare I ask what you were doing in there?” the priestess enquires dryly.

Ananke extends her hand, revealing the piece of candy in her palm. “Here,” she offers sincerely. “It's not much, but it's the best I can do. I feel terrible about this entire situation.”

The priestess stares at her, then at the sweet she's offering. “You are… quite the peculiar creature, aren’t you?” she observes, still studying Ananke intently. “You remind me of a sad, lonely child alone out on the fields asking for friends by offering everyone flowers,” she says in a studious tone.

“…Sorry,” Ananke says uncertainly, not sure whether an apology is appropriate regarding that matter.

Petersilie looks at her utterly helpless expression for a long moment, then suddenly laughs and accepts the candy. “I'll overlook your strangeness this time, Ananke from distant places,” she says with playful warmth. “But only because you've offered me a proper bribe.” She unwraps the confection and places it in her mouth. “Oh. Nuts,” she says, chewing the toffee. “Lovely.”

Nuts? It’s lucky she didn’t eat that after all. She’s allergic, after all. “Isn't accepting bribes against the rules for priestesses?” Ananke asks with genuine curiosity.

Petersilie settles her head against the thin pillow and closes her eyes. “The world was created by Heaven, Ananke,” she replies. “Its rules were only made by people, and they are the only ones who suffer when their codex is violated. So if nobody is harmed by our actions, is there truly any need for consequences simply because something is 'forbidden'?” She pauses thoughtfully. “Consider that our theological discussion for the evening. I tire. Rest well, my strange play-yard friend.”

“…Good night,” Ananke says with a quietly surprised tone, not sure if she heard that last word right.

But the priestess has already succumbed to exhaustion. Ananke contemplates Petersilie's words for several moments, then looks down at her own still-bandaged hand.

There’s a time thread strung through it.

She snaps her fingers quietly, the movement touching the thread in a precise manner.

Time pauses around them, and she makes her way back to the cabinet, crawling inside the temporal portal.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

Ananke emerges from the corresponding cabinet in her own room back at the Crux and immediately collapses face-first onto her luxurious bed. She's absolutely drained from the long day and night of unexpected experiences, but beneath the exhaustion, she feels a warm glow of satisfaction.

She smiles into her pillow as sleep takes her.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

The next day finds Ananke navigating the Crux's familiar corridors with growing confidence, her purple apprentice robes swishing softly against her legs as she makes her way toward the training chambers. She's been settling into the rhythm of her new life, the constant lessons and practice sessions becoming almost comfortable despite their intensity. The upward-flowing water at the tower's heart provides its usual ambient soundtrack.

A sudden commotion shatters the peaceful atmosphere.

"Let me go!" shouts a young man's voice, raw with desperation and fury.

Ananke stops immediately, turning toward the source of the disturbance. Down a connecting bridge, she sees a man in distinctive black robes being forcibly dragged along by two Minutemen. He struggles violently against their grip, his feet scrambling for purchase on the smooth stone as he's hauled toward one of the tower's descending stairwells. The fabric of his clothing marks him clearly as a member of the Witching Hour.

Chronomancer Richter stands nearby directing the operation, his pale features composed with administrative calm. Vorskaya and Jandal flank him, their expressions carrying the cold satisfaction of a successful hunt.

"What's happening?" Ananke asks, approaching the scene with concern tightening her chest.

Richter turns sharply, his eyes widening fractionally as if he hadn't expected to encounter her here. He gestures curtly for Vorskaya and Jandal to continue their work. The two chronomancers nod and maintain their grip on the fighting, struggling prisoner, dragging him out of sight down the stairs with practised efficiency.

"We've apprehended one of the Witching Hour," Richter explains with simple directness once the others have departed.

"You're not going to hurt him, are you?" Ananke asks, her eyes widening with alarm. She doesn't fully understand the context of their relationship with the rogue cult, but there's certainly profound animosity toward the Witching Hour throughout the Crux based on what she's gathered. Still, causing harm to a captured prisoner seems fundamentally wrong regardless of factional politics.

Chronomancer Richter studies her carefully, his analytical gaze seeming to weigh her reaction against some internal measure. "Would that be wrong?" he asks with genuine curiosity rather than challenge. "They are our enemies, Ananke. They oppose everything we stand for."

“I mean…” she falters, her gaze darting after the vanished stranger before returning to meet Richter's penetrating stare. “If you already have him captured... then there's no need for violence, right? He can't hurt anyone while he's restrained.”

Richter continues studying her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Something in his expression shifts, tension visibly leaving the rigid set of his shoulders. "You're cut from good cloth, Ananke. We’ve certainly done worse than you before," he says with what sounds like genuine approval. He lifts one hand in a gesture that might be reassurance or an oath. “I swear to you, not a single one of his threads will be harmed.”

She releases a breath she hadn't realised she was holding, relief washing over her features. “Then what will you do with him?" she asks, her natural curiosity asserting itself. “Do we just have a prison facility or something in the lower levels?”

“Don't trouble your mind with such administrative details,” Richter remarks with dismissive gentleness. “He will be processed like all the others we've captured and repurposed elsewhere in the world,” he explains as if this should be perfectly clear and acceptable.

"I..." Ananke starts, her voice trailing off as she processes his vague explanation. She doesn't actually know what that means, what "processed" and "repurposed" entail in practical terms. She supposes they're simply going to travel back in time and somehow prevent him from becoming a threat to begin with, maybe alter his past to redirect him toward less dangerous pursuits. That sounds perfectly reasonable given what she understands about chronomantic capabilities. "Okay," she agrees with a small nod, accepting the explanation at face value.

Richter nods to her once with satisfaction, then turns and walks away with measured steps, following after the others who have taken the prisoner deeper into the Crux's forbidden sections. Ananke watches them disappear around a corner, her hand unconsciously rubbing her arm as a vague unease settles in her stomach despite Richter's reassurances.