The day felt too short.

  The Tower had been decorated with white flowers. Long banners hung from the high arches, swaying gently in the still air. From a distance, it looked like a celebration.

  But no one believed it was.

  Matt, Sarah, Serena, Joseph, Raphel, and Stephen stood together near the front of the grand hall. They wore formal clothes prepared for the gathering, elegant robes and polished boots.

  Yet none of them smiled.

  Stephen stood slightly apart from the others, his arms crossed tightly as if holding himself together. His eyes kept drifting toward the great doors of the Vault, waiting for something he knew would never come.

  Sarah’s face looked empty.

  Like someone who had already lost her brother.

  Matt stared silently at the floor. Serena held Joseph’s arm tightly, her fingers trembling. Raphel said nothing, his jaw locked with anger he could not release.

  Around them sat the kings of the twelve kingdoms, each seated upon thrones carved from their homeland’s stone and metal.

  The King of the Western Kingdom sat proudly beside the King of the North. Behind the northern king stood his two sons, silent and observant like statues guarding the throne.

  No one spoke.

  Because everyone understood what this day truly meant.

  Inside a quiet chamber above the hall, the Watcher stood alone.

  On a small table before him rested a white mask.

  It was smooth and expressionless, carved from a strange pale material that reflected the candlelight softly. There were no symbols carved into it, no decorations, no crown.

  Only two dark openings where the eyes would see through.

  The Watcher picked up the mask slowly.

  For a moment he studied his own reflection in the mirror before him.

  Then he lifted the mask and placed it over his face.

  His identity disappeared instantly.

  Only the Watcher remained.

  He turned toward Tavari.

  Tavari’s body rested peacefully upon a stone platform. The Watcher carefully dressed him in white royal garments, adjusting every fold of cloth with quiet precision.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  When he finished, Tavari no longer looked like a fallen boy.

  He looked like a king waiting to rise.

  The Watcher stood there for a long moment, simply watching him.

  Then he left the chamber.

  In his private room nearby, the Watcher sat briefly before a tall mirror.

  A glass of dark wine rested in his hand.

  He studied the masked reflection staring back at him.

  A knock came at the door.

  Arie entered quietly.

  “My lord… it is time.”

  The Watcher stood.

  His long black robe fell around him like liquid shadow, its tail dragging across the floor behind him.

  As he passed Arie, he rested a hand briefly on his shoulder.

  “The earthquake never wishes to break the earth,” the Watcher said softly.

  “It only wishes to pass.”

  “But fate forces it to tear the ground apart.”

  He paused.

  “So the earthquake suffers first… before the world does.”

  Then he walked past him.

  The Watcher ascended the grand staircase toward the Vault.

  His black robe flowed behind him like a river of darkness.

  When he entered the great hall, every king rose immediately from their seat.

  Many of them had seen the Watcher before.

  But none had ever seen him like this.

  A black robe flowing behind him.

  A silent white mask hiding his face.

  A figure with no identity.

  They bowed deeply.

  The Watcher lifted a hand.

  “No bows today.”

  His voice echoed calmly across the hall.

  “This is a party… not a meeting.”

  Slowly, he took his seat.

  The mask stared at everyone.

  And no one could see the face behind it.

  Far beneath the Tower…

  Tavari floated within endless darkness.

  Before him stretched countless threads.

  Thousands.

  Millions.

  Each one glowing faintly with power older than kingdoms.

  Threads of Reality.

  Threads of Law.

  Threads of Time.

  And threads of the Nine Elements that formed the foundation of the world.

  One thread burned with living flame.

  Another flowed like an endless river of water.

  Air whispered through an invisible strand that moved like wind across open plains.

  Earth pulsed slowly like the heartbeat of mountains.

  Light shimmered like the birth of a star.

  Shadow twisted around another thread like a silent predator.

  Life glowed warm and vibrant.

  Death remained cold and patient.

  And Time moved through all of them, slow and unstoppable.

  Tavari reached out.

  His fingers touched the threads.

  They responded.

  Slowly… carefully… Tavari began weaving them together.

  Thread through thread.

  Law through reality.

  Time through power.

  The universe itself bending around his hands like a loom made for gods.

  As he worked, Tavari floated weightlessly, slowly turning in the void.

  Then something appeared before him.

  Faces.

  Matt.

  Sarah.

  Serena.

  Joseph.

  Raphel.

  Stephen.

  The people he loved.

  The world he knew.

  Then suddenly—

  A pale white shadow covered his eyes.

  Tavari blinked.

  The darkness disappeared.

  He stood in a forest.

  Cold air brushed against his skin. Leaves whispered softly above him.

  Across the clearing stood someone else.

  Another Tavari.

  But this version looked different.

  Stronger.

  Colder.

  More complete.

  Tavari tried to summon his power.

  Nothing happened.

  He was powerless.

  The other Tavari attacked.

  The fight was brutal.

  Tavari died.

  Then he woke again.

  The same forest.

  A burning scar now marked his chest.

  They fought again.

  He died again.

  Then he woke again.

  Another scar.

  Another fight.

  Another death.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Every death left a new scar across his body.

  Every return made the other Tavari stronger.

  Until finally Tavari understood the truth.

  This was never a battle.

  This was a trial.

  And the enemy he had to defeat…

  Was himself.