Chapter 13: Chapter 13

The mountain air cuts through Ananke's lungs like shards of ice, each breath forming small clouds that dissipate quickly in the thin atmosphere. Vestenberg clings to the cliffsides with tenacity, its ancient stone buildings carved directly into the rock. The architecture predates the recent war by centuries, giving the entire city an otherworldly quality compared to the more modernised cities of Hafen or even Skroscocivo.

But the ancient foundations support a strong contrast to themselves.

Clockwork mechanisms tick and whirr from every street corner, their brass gears catching the afternoon light as they power the self-contained crystal lights of streetlamps. Water pumps line the exteriors of buildings, feeding into pipes that are everywhere, as common as the walls of houses. Steam engines chuff and hiss throughout the industrial districts, their smokestacks rising like metal trees out from the sides of the mountain. The sound of hammering on metal echoes from auto-hammer metal foundries where the materials of the deep mountain mines are processed and forged into technological marvels she's never imagined.

Above them, around them, prototype airships drift between the peaks of the mountains, their hulls gleaming with enchanted steel and their propellers spinning. Ananke has her face pressed to the glass, wowing in silent awe as she watches such a massive ship of war fly past them.

She hasn’t seen them since the war. They usually don’t ever go somewhere so far away as Hafen is, lying distant over leagues of flatlands where they would be easy targets. Magical technology powers their flight, a fusion of ancient arcane knowledge and cutting-edge steam-mechanical engineering that makes Ananke stare in open-mouthed wonder.

Ananke peers through her own window at the city sprawling below them, marvelling at how the buildings seem to grow organically from the mountain itself.

The carriage begins its descent toward the manor district, spread out over the mountain’s plateau in between several cliff faces and Ananke extends her temporal senses cautiously to examine their destination as they draw closer.

From above, it looks like a spider’s web.

The threads she can perceive around the neighbourhood are unlike anything she has encountered in all her training. Usually threads of time are chaotic and everywhere. They criss-cross and overlap. They sit in bundles and knots. But here, they’re organised and neat. It’s like they’ve been laid out carefully by someone. However, their usual silver luminescence is corrupted into something dark and oily that makes her stomach clench. They look like the burnt threads of someone who is severed. Except here, they’re moving around one particular house, as if avoiding it.

There’s a crooked house standing by itself, resting against the mountain stone. It has a bad vibe, frankly.

“The threads around that place,” she murmurs, studying the chaotic patterns with growing unease. “The house is severed?” she asks herself. She didn’t know that was possible, for an entire location to be disconnected from time.

The carriage jolts to a stop before wrought iron gates that stand open despite the obvious abandonment of the property beyond. The manor looms against the darkening sky like a monument to gothic excess, its pointed towers and brooding shadows creating a silhouette that seems designed to inspire dread. Windows stare down at them like empty eye sockets, reflecting nothing of the fading daylight that bathes the rest of the city in warm tones. The wind howls through the mountain peaks.

There, standing at the precipice of it all, is a large, grey-skinned man towering over her. He stands there with his arms crossed and a rather frightening look on his face.

“C-Chronomancer Murkan?” asks Ananke. “I’m -”

“- Your job is easy,” Murkan says immediately as she walks up the gravel path. “Enter. Investigate. Document.”

She looks at the house just behind him and then back at him. “You're not joining me inside?” Ananke asks uneasily.

At that same second, the upstairs window flies open. A shrill scream fills the air. The two of them look at a copy of Ananke, flailing out of the glass. “HELP!” she shouts desperately, waving at them. “HEL-!”

Something grabs her from behind and the copy vanishes back into the house, her voice muffling.

The real Ananke stares blankly at the open, empty window and then back at the orcish man next to her, gesturing with her arms toward the house.

“Go inside,” he explains dryly.

She sighs.

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

The manor's entrance hall stretches before Ananke like the mouth of some enormous beast, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows that seem to move with their own purpose. Dust motes drift through shafts of fading daylight that filter through grimy windows, and the temperature feels wrong, shifting between arctic cold and stifling warmth without any apparent pattern.

She takes her first tentative steps into the main lobby, her boots echoing hollowly on the marble floor. The sound seems to travel far further than it should in the empty space, as if the building itself is amplifying every noise she makes. Ancient portraits line the walls, their subjects staring down at her with eyes that seem to follow her movement through the gloom.

Suddenly, the silence explodes into chaos.

A series of loud crashes and bangs fill the air as if every piece of furniture in the manor has decided to rearrange itself simultaneously. Books tumble from shelves in avalanches of leather and paper, vases shatter against walls, and doors slam with violent force that echoes through the corridors. Above it all comes a sound that makes her blood freeze: screaming. A man’s screaming, filled with rage and anguish that cuts through her soul.

A massive translucent figure materialises in the centre of the hall, its form flickering between solid and ethereal. The phantom rushes directly at her with arms outstretched, its mouth open in a soundless shriek of fury. Ananke shouts out in terror, instinctively raising her hand to pause time around herself.

The familiar shimmer spreads through the air, but the phantom continues moving even within the frozen temporal field. Pausing time didn’t affect it. The ghost operates by rules that exist outside normal chronomancy, unaffected by her desperate attempt at protection. But just as it reaches her, the apparition vanishes as suddenly as it appeared, leaving her standing alone in the eerily still manor.

Time resumes.

Holding her chest where her heart hammers against her ribs, she surveys the damage around her. Books continue flying from their shelves as if thrown by invisible hands, their pages fluttering through the air like wounded birds. She dodges a particularly heavy tome that crashes into the wall beside her head, then grabs the front door handle and yanks it open.

“There really is a ghost!” she shouts to Chronomancer Murkan, her voice cracking with barely controlled panic.

“Back inside,” he replies simply, sitting comfortably on the stone bench outside without even looking in her direction.

She narrows her eyes at his casual dismissal, then sighs in frustration and shuts the door with more force than necessary. If he expects her to solve this alone, she'll need more information than her current training has provided.

Ananke begins exploring the manor methodically, moving from room to room while ducking flying objects and enduring sudden temperature drops that make her breath mist in the stale air. But she doesn't know anything useful about ghosts beyond folklore and stories.

She needs expert knowledge, and she knows exactly where to find it.

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

A copy of Ananke pops her head out of the cabinet in the underground dormitory at the magical academy where she has been studying now for weeks, looking at Petersilie, who sits on her bunk reading by the light of a small crystal. The priestess glances up with visible concern etched across her pale features.

“You know, I worry about you sometimes, Ananke,” Petersilie says, staring at her friend as she emerges from what appears to be a hiding spot in the furniture. As far as the priestess knows, Ananke has been sitting inside the cabinet for the past hour without explanation, like some sort of tunnel rat.

“Pete, what makes a ghost?” the temporal copy asks without preamble. Petersilie is a priestess initiate of the Arkonian church. Surely she possesses knowledge about such supernatural phenomena.

“A ghost?” Petersilie considers the question thoughtfully. “Strong emotions at the moment of death. Traumatic events, unresolved conflicts, lingering attachments to the mortal world,” she explains with the authority of formal theological education. “But what's critical is that there must be a significant imprinting of magical energy occurring simultaneously to solidify these emotional residues into actual manifestation. It is like heat solidifying a residue.”

“How do I get rid of one?” the copy asks with obvious interest.

“Heal whatever spiritual wound created it, naturally,” the priestess replies matter-of-factly. “Address the unfinished business, resolve the trauma, provide closure. Or simply blast the thing into oblivion with concentrated holy magic.” She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Why are you asking such specific questions?”

“No particular reason. Thanks, Petey!” the copy replies cheerfully, beginning to crawl back into the cabinet.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“…You are quite the curious little creature, you know that?” Petersilie mutters after her with fond exasperation. “Oh, Ananke!” she calls suddenly. “Are we still meeting for lunch tomorrow?”

“You bet!” the temporal duplicate replies, flashing the priestess an enthusiastic thumbs up before crawling back into the cabinet and closing the door behind her.

The two of them have become something approaching prison friends.

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

The real Ananke opens her eyes again back in the haunted manor, the knowledge from her duplicate flooding into her consciousness. She approaches one of the tall windows and leans out to address Murkan. “Hey,” she calls to the courtyard below. “If this is really a ghost, why are we the ones here? Don't we need a priest or an exorcist for this kind of problem?”

She looks around for the orcish chronomancer but finds the bench empty. He's nowhere to be seen, having apparently vanished while she was conducting her research. “What the…” she mutters, scanning the grounds with growing confusion.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck rises as the temperature plummets to arctic levels. Ice begins forming on the windows, and her breath becomes visible in sharp puffs of vapour. A shimmering figure stands at the far end of the hallway behind her, its translucent form radiating menace and fury.

They stare at each other for a frozen moment across the length of the corridor. Then the phantom breaks into a full sprint directly toward her, its face contorted with supernatural rage and its arms reaching out with obvious intent to cause harm.

Ananke lets out a sharp yell of terror and bolts for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time as she flees toward the manor's upper floors with the sound of otherworldly pursuit echoing behind her.

She runs up the grand staircase with terror propelling her legs faster than she's ever moved before. Her boots slip on the dusty marble steps as she races toward the upper floors, away from the spectral figure that pursues her with supernatural speed. She bursts through the first door she finds, stumbling into what appears to be a master bedroom draped in cobwebs and decay.

The window. She needs to call for help.

She rushes across the room and throws the window panes open with desperate strength, leaning out into the cold mountain air. Below, the courtyard spreads out in gathering darkness, the stone bench clearly visible in the fading light.

“Help!” she shouts into the evening air, her voice echoing off the surrounding cliffs. A strange sense of deja vu washes over her, as if she's lived this exact moment before. “Hel-!”

Something grabs her from behind with crushing force, one hand clamping over her mouth to muffle her cries. Ananke fights desperately, struggling against the iron grip as she's pulled back away from the window. Her training kicks in and she manages to twist free, spinning around to face her attacker.

A copy of herself stands there in the shadows.

But this version looks wrong. Her hair has grown longer, unwashed and tangled, hanging past her shoulders. Dark circles sit beneath eyes that carry the haunted look of someone who has endured prolonged isolation. Her clothes are filthy and ragged, the purple apprentice robe torn and stained beyond recognition.

“Shh!” the duplicate hisses urgently. “Easy. It's just me.”

“What?” Ananke gasps, still clutching her racing heart. “What are you doing?! You scared me half to death! I'm going to have an attack if you keep grabbing me like that,” she breathes, trying to calm her frantic pulse.

“Listen. This is a trap. You need to get out of here!” the haggard copy says with desperate intensity. “He set us up! Murkan.”

“What? Why would he do something like that?” Ananke asks, confusion mixing with her fading terror. “He's one of the Twelve. Why would he trap another chronomancer?”

The copy, who clearly has been trapped here for far longer than Ananke wants to contemplate, studies her with weary eyes. “He was one of the Twelve,” she explains grimly. “Until we took his position. Murkan is the chronomancer who got replaced when we manifested our abilities.” Her expression grows more urgent. “Didn't you examine the outside of the house when you arrived? The temporal threads? We're completely severed from the rest of the timeline while we're inside this structure.”

The real Ananke processes this revelation, understanding crashing over her like a physical weight. There can always only be exactly twelve chronomancers in the Twelve Hands. When a new member arrives, an old one must depart. But if she's trapped inside a severed location, there are no threads connecting her to reality anywhere in the normal flow of time. She's been disconnected, erased from the timeline.

That means, in this isolated pocket, Murkan never got replaced at all. Her eyes widen in horror as the implications sink in.

“How is that even possible?!” the real Ananke demands. “Master sent us here. He wouldn’t do that if he knew about something like this.”

“Well, I guess he didn’t know,” replies her copy sharply. Suddenly, heavy thudding echoes through the manor. Both versions of herself turn to see the ghostly figure materialising again at the far end of the corridor. The phantom's translucent form flickers with increasing instability, its features twisted with rage and desperate determination.

It’s Murkan.

“That's him. He’s trying to catch me. To erase me for good,” the haggard copy says, backing away slowly. “I've been hiding from that thing for weeks now, waiting for you to arrive so we could figure out a way to escape together. It's not actually a ghost at all. That's the original Murkan. That's why he keeps phasing in and out of visibility. He's gradually fading out of existence entirely. He needs to remove me so he can be free.”

“What do you mean, waiting for weeks for me to arrive?” asks Ananke.

“It’s a loop. Time is severed here, so it keeps repeating,” she whispers. “You’re the second one of me to get here now.”

What do we do?” Ananke asks, stepping backward in tandem with her duplicate. “Let's call for help!” She reaches out with her chronomantic abilities, trying to manifest a copy of herself elsewhere to carry a message to her master or anyone at the Crux who might rescue them.

Nothing happens.

Ananke realises with dawning terror that she's become severed from the timeline just like her future self. She's been inside this isolated pocket too long, and now her temporal threads have faded completely. She's trapped here, disconnected from everything and everyone who might save her.

The manifestation of Chronomancer Murkan fixes its hollow gaze directly on them both. “I will not surrender my life to some… abomination,” the phantom snarls with bitter hatred, then charges toward them with supernatural speed. “I don’t care what they say!”

“Split!” the haggard copy shouts, immediately running down one hallway. The real Ananke bolts down another corridor, her heart pounding as she hears the thudding of heavy boots pursuing her. The sound grows closer and closer, each impact making the floorboards shake beneath her feet.

Suddenly the footsteps fade away, redirected toward her duplicate instead. Ananke catches her breath in a shadowy alcove, then carefully makes her way through the darkened manor until she finds her copy again near the main entrance. The other version of herself crouches behind a suit of decorative armour, breathing hard.

“Don't bother trying the exits. None of the doors or windows function properly,” the copy warns quietly. “I've tested every single one.”

“That's fine. I have an idea,” Ananke pants as she joins her duplicate behind the inadequate cover. “How long did you say you've been waiting for me to arrive?”

The copy studies her with knowing eyes. “I found a hiding spot where he can't reach. I’ve been holing up there. It’s a little tight for the two of us, but…”

The two versions of herself regard each other with mutual understanding of what needs to happen next.

“…At least we can keep each other busy,” sighs Ananke, not looking forward to this.

They’ll be stuck here for a while.

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

Weeks pass in the isolated manor. They’ve hidden in a nook together, coming out now and then to scavenge supplies from the regenerating time-stuck pantry and to run away again. There were several close calls, but they made it through the many awkward, cramped nights.

Finally, the two Anankes stand together by the front door again, both having been trapped in this temporal prison for what feels like an eternity. They've grown accustomed to each other's presence, working in silent coordination born of shared consciousness and desperate circumstances. Their clothes are equally ragged now, their faces equally gaunt from lack of proper food or rest.

Noises sound from outside the manor, the familiar distortion of someone arriving through temporal displacement. “Ready?” the real Ananke asks quietly. Her duplicate nods once with grim determination.

The phantom of Murkan materialises at the top of the grand staircase, its decaying form solidifying as it spots them standing in the open. The apparition narrows its eyes with predatory focus and begins barrelling down the steps toward them with murderous intent.

At precisely the same second, the front door swings open and a fresh copy of Ananke steps inside, having just arrived from her proper timeline. This version looks clean and rested, her purple robe still pristine.

“What the-?” the newcomer begins in confusion.

The real Ananke lunges forward and grabs the third’s hand with desperate strength. The second copy, the one who has been trapped here the longest, seizes the real Ananke's other hand. The newest arrival lets out a yelp of surprise just as the phantom Murkan's decaying fingers close around the second copy's shoulder.

“I got you!” the orcish ghost snarls with savage triumph.

But something fundamental changes in that instant. The newest Ananke still possesses temporal threads connecting her to the outside world, glowing strands that anchor her to proper reality. Now that the real Ananke has grabbed the newcomer's hand while the trapped duplicate holds hers, they've created an impromptu chain through multiple timelines. The connection flows through all three of them and touches the severed spirit of Chronomancer Murkan directly.

“Wait. No… No!” he shouts, releasing the copy and staggering backward in horror. Parts of his hands and arms begin crumbling away into fine dust that disperses on nonexistent wind. “I won't accept this! I can't! You’re not even real!” His voice rises to a desperate scream as more of his form disintegrates. “I can control time itself! I cannot die! I'm immor-”

The declaration cuts off abruptly as the last fragments of him fade into ash and wash away into nothingness, leaving only silence in his wake

The three versions of Ananke watch the space where the phantom had been, then slowly turn to regard each other with varying degrees of exhaustion and relief. “Do I want to know what just happened here?” the newest copy asks, taking in the terrible state of her other selves. “You two look like crap.”

The core Ananke and the duplicate who shared her imprisonment exchange a long, knowing look filled with memories of fear and survival. They turn back to address the newcomer in unison. “No,” they say firmly at the same time, stepping out through the front door and back into the world beyond the manor’s corrupted boundaries.

Temporal threads shoot past her like silver lightning, time naturally reconnecting the isolated area to the proper flow of reality. The house is pierced by one strand after another as the timeline re-establishes itself, and slowly the entire structure begins to change. The manor decays rapidly, then rebuilds, then decays again in an accelerating cycle as years of accumulated temporal distortion catch up all at once. Stone crumbles, wood rots, and metal rusts and renews in rapid succession until finally the building collapses entirely into a pile of rubble that looks like it's been abandoned for years.

Ananke climbs into the waiting temporal carriage with her duplicates following behind. All three versions of herself settle onto the cushioned benches. One of them reaches up and rings the small bell that signals the transport to begin its ascent back to the Crux.

“So, how are we going to explain Chronomancer Murkan being gone?” the real Ananke asks as the carriage lurches into motion, beginning its climb toward the tower floating impossibly above the world.

“Chronomancer who?” the freshest, third Ananke asks, looking between her other selves with genuine confusion.

Ananke and her long-trapped duplicate exchange glances, then turn to stare out the window at the crumbling remains of the manor far below. The timeline has already adjusted itself, rewriting history to account for Murkan's absence in ways they cannot predict or control.

“Never mind,” they say together, watching as the ruined estate disappears into the distance behind them.