Chrono Scepter

Syrofa wandered.

The world she had fallen to, Hytrol, breathed with a life so raw, so untempered, it stung her senses. Towering forests unfurled beneath endless skies, their canopies so dense they smothered the sun. Rivers coiled like serpents through the valleys, their waters singing songs older than the stars. Mountains rose like ancient gods, cloaked in mist and silence.

This world was not sterile or orderly like the Celestial Realm. It was wild. Untamed. Alive.

Every breath Syrofa drew was thick with the scent of soil, of rain, of life born from chaos rather than command. It unsettled her, and yet, somewhere deep within the ruins of her spirit, it called to her.

Barefoot and broken, she walked.

Gone were the cosmic symphonies she once moved within. Here, the only music was the rasp of wind through the trees and the distant roar of waterfalls crashing against stone. Creatures watched her from the shadows, not with reverence, but with wary curiosity. To them, she was not a goddess fallen. She was merely another thing that bled.

The forests of Hytrol swallowed her in their vast embrace, and still she pressed on day after day, night after night, seeking something she could not name. Not forgiveness. Not return. Something older. Something truer.

The land left its mark on her. Scratches, bruises, the aching pull of hunger gnawed at her immortal frame, stripping away the last vestiges of celestial arrogance. In pain, she learned. In solitude, she listened.

Hytrol did not offer answers. It offered only itself, and the slow, brutal gift of survival.

And Syrofa, cast from the heavens, embraced it.

She did not soar. She endured.

And in the heart of that endurance, a new light, darker and fiercer than anything the Divine Assembly had ever allowed, began to kindle within her hollow chest.

One evening, as the sky above Hytrol darkened into deep indigo and star-sprinkled blackness, Syrofa found herself crossing paths with an unexpected group. The air felt heavier in the dense forests of this new world, the weight of her fall still pressing on her spirit. Her wings, once brilliant, now hung limply at her sides, their radiance long faded. Beneath her feet, the earth felt strange, too solid and unyielding, as if it mocked her lost divinity.

In the distance, a group of travellers approached. Through the trees, Syrofa first caught sight of Zethraxis, the Leorian who had once stood against the storm of Prokapin. He was not a warrior in the traditional sense, but a survivor, shaped by the immense trials of the celestial conflict. Now, his eyes carried the weight of something much darker, something uncontrolled, the powers of the Shadow Realm. It pulsed beneath his skin, and Syrofa could feel the magnetic pull of it even from where she stood.

Beside him walked Aria, the human historian turned warrior. She had stood by Zethraxis in the storm, her skills sharpened by years of study, but now she wore the mantle of a scholar. Though she had seen the horrors of Prokapin, it was not her blade that had drawn her into this mission, but her intellect and determination to uncover celestial secrets long buried. Her calm gaze scanned the ground, always seeking the story written in the world around her.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Flanking them was a third — Ryoichi, a being of complex bloodlines: Draconian, Human, and Elvusapien intertwined. His scaled forearms bore sigils that seemed alive under the twilight, and his silver-white gaze shimmered with quiet calculation. Wisdom and burden flickered in his presence, as if he already stood on the edge of countless unseen futures.

They had not come for her. They had not expected her.

Their purpose was clear: to retrieve the Chrono Sceptre, a relic whispered to bind or sever the strands of time itself.

Zethraxis was the first to sense her presence. His gaze turned sharply, eyes narrowing.

"Who goes there?"

Her hunger, an ache she had never known in her divine form, gnawed at her insides. The need to consume, to sustain herself, was foreign. Asking for sustenance felt like an admission of defeat.

"I am Syrofa Anarothron. You stand before one who once walked the heavens themselves."

Aria tilted her head. "Do you need help?"

Syrofa’s eyes narrowed, but she answered. "A shame to admit, yet I have been cast out and now walk among mortals. With my grace stripped, I have no place in the heavens."

Zethraxis’s voice was cautious. "You speak as though you are so high and mighty. Why should we believe you?"

Syrofa’s gaze stayed firm. "Do my broken wings not tell you where I come from?"

Aria stepped closer, her eyes lingering on Syrofa’s pale features. "What do you seek here, then? If you are no longer of the heavens, what purpose do you have in the mortal world?"

"I do not know," Syrofa said. "I was cast out for having questions. My place is unknown. But tell me, mortals, what is it you seek?"

"Do you know of the Chrono Sceptre?" Zethraxis asked.

The name sent a shiver through her. "I do not know its full nature, only that it was forbidden even in certain archives. It is tied to time and fate."

She stepped forward, but her body betrayed her. A wave of weakness crashed over her and she doubled over, gripping her stomach.

Aria rushed to her side. "You’re hurt!"

"No… I am afflicted. This body demands sustenance," Syrofa said through clenched teeth.

Aria’s voice softened. "You’re starving. You’ve never eaten before, have you?"

Syrofa said nothing.

"We have enough rations to spare," Ryoichi said.

"You need food," Aria told her firmly. "Let us help you. You will not survive otherwise."

Syrofa forced herself upright, legs shaking. "Very well."

"Good," Aria said. "Because you are going to need your strength if you are coming with us."

The journey began beneath the verdant canopy of Hytrol’s ancient forest, where silver mist clung to the roots like forgotten memory. Sunlight broke only in fractured beams, casting a dreamlike glow upon moss-laced stones and crystalline waters.

They pressed on.

It was Syrofa who paused first before an ancient vine-choked rise of stone. "Here," she murmured. "Something ancient stirs beneath."

Aria touched the stone, eyes widening. "This is it. A shrine… maybe the first built after the Collapse. And it holds the Chrono Sceptre."

No one spoke.

"Then let us see what secrets the past will give back," Zethraxis said.

They stepped into the shrine’s darkened maw.

Inside, the air was thick with memory. Vines slithered over the floor. Aria traced an inscription. "This place was built not to guard something, but to imprison it."

At the centre of a vast chamber floated the relic. The Chrono Sceptre spun slowly, crystal and voidsteel entwined.

They stepped forward and time fractured. Aria’s hand withered and renewed in moments. Zethraxis’s shadow form slipped free. Syrofa staggered, her mortal frame faltering.

Only Ryoichi pressed on. Centuries slammed into him at once, but he endured, fingers closing around the relic’s core. The world froze.

When it ended, the sceptre was his.

“…He endured," Syrofa whispered.

Outside, something had felt the relic awaken.