She whispered, “Their ritual has… two minutes. Maybe less. If we break the circle before the veil thins, we stop the summoning.” Maya’s eyes flicked from the scene below to Ethan’s clenched fists. The flicker of red light from the braziers carved hard lines across her face. “If we rush in now, there’s at least fifteen of them. And their leader looks like he knows more than a few spells. We’ll be torn apart.”
“Then what’s your plan? Let them finish? Let whatever...they're trying to summon come through?”
Maya’s gaze flickered down through the cracks. The bound youth writhed, blood dripping to the stone floor. Her jaw tightened. For a moment she said nothing. Then she leaned closer, whispering, “We strike when the summoning peaks—when their focus is broken by the release of power. If we’re lucky, we can stop it mid-ritual. The backlash might even take some of them down for us.”
Her voice carried that flat certainty Ethan had come to fear—the sound of someone who had already seen it happen once before. It was a gamble. A huge one. But she wasn’t wrong.
They slipped through the trapdoor into the cellar’s reek of incense and blood. The cultists’ voices wove together, vibrating the air. Their priest stood at the center, knife poised above the sacrifice.
For a moment, the cultists did not notice. Ethan felt the fire rise, but before he could strike, Maya brushed his arm lightly.
“Wait.” Her eyes glowed faintly with blue-white light. “We use the moment.”
The air around them shifted—sound dulled, the braziers’ flames slowed to a syrupy crawl. Ethan gasped as the world seemed to sag under some unseen weight. The cultists still chanted, but sluggishly, as if dragged by an unseen tide.
Maya’s voice strained with the effort. “I can bend the stream, but only for heartbeats. Choose where we strike.”
The spell cracked.
Time snapped forward like a bowstring released, and sound rushed back in a deafening roar—cultists screaming, fire roaring, the priest staggering as if shoved by a god.
The priest lifted his hands, chanting louder, his followers echoing in broken chorus. The summoning circle writhed with black smoke, shapes pressing at the veil from the other side. Something vast. Something clawed.
Ethan’s flames lashed out, burning three cultists before they could steady the chant. But too many remained. The circle still pulsed. Where do they keep coming from?
Maya rose shakily, blood running from her nose now. “One more fold,” she whispered, half to herself. “But if I pull too hard, I won’t come back clean.”
Ethan’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, clean?”
“Time pushes back,” she said, eyes fixed on the circle. “Every shift costs me—memories, moments, days I’ll never get back. But if I don’t…” Her gaze hardened. “We both die, and so does this city.”
Before he could answer, she raised her hands.
The circle screamed. That was the only way Ethan could describe it—the runes themselves keening as fire collided with their unstable magic. The shadowy tendrils writhed violently, twisting into grotesque shapes that clawed for escape.
The cultists froze as time unraveled in jagged shards. Their bodies warped, movements stuttering—one aged ten years in a blink, his skin sagging; another collapsed, suddenly as frail as a starving elder. Only the priest resisted, his chant turning frantic, blood pouring from his eyes as he fought her spell.
The summoning fissure tore wider, shadows clawing against the edges of the veil. Ethan flung fire into it, searing hands that were not hands, faces that were not faces.
Maya’s voice rose in a ragged cry. “Now, Ethan—burn it shut!”
Their eyes met, and in that instant, something inside the Binding Oath between them flared awake. Ethan felt her will pour into him, cool and sharp like a blade tempered in ice. The fire within him stopped flailing wildly and surged forward, focused, honed.
With a roar, he hurled everything forward, flame and fury, until the circle blazed white-hot. The flames roared higher, golden streaks flickering within the inferno. They poured into the circle, drowning the sigils, consuming the writhing shadows. The priest shrieked, his crimson eyes burning wide with horror as the fissure collapsed inward. The shadow-hand convulsed, clawing madly at the air, then was ripped apart, its shriek vanishing into the void.
Silence fell. Acrid smoke curled in the dark. The bound youth whimpered, but alive.
Ethan collapsed to one knee, his chest heaving, every muscle quaking. His hands still glowed faintly, skin blistered and raw. Maya was right there beside him, clutching her temples. Ethan caught her, heart pounding.
The priest’s body lay crumpled near the shattered remains of the circle, his staff splintered. The others—those who survived—scattered in panic, robes trailing behind them as they fled into the night.
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “How long?” she whispered.
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
Her lips trembled. “How long did I lose this time?”
Ethan stared at her, helpless. He had no answer. “Despite everything that just happened, we actually did it.” He managed a faint, grim smile. “Guess the Binding Oath wasn’t just for show.”
By the time they were able to leave the Cultists hideout, dawn had broken and word had already spread.
Governor Calenne received them in her hall once more, though her bow was brisker, her smile thinner. She thanked them, yes, and pronounced the cult broken, the city saved. But her voice was stiff, clipped, her gaze lingering too long on Maya.
When they emerged into the streets, it was worse.
The people did not cheer. They watched.
Merchants leaned from shutters, mothers drew their children close, guards at the gates shifted uneasily. Everywhere Ethan felt the stares like pricks of heat on his skin. They whispered names not with reverence, but caution. Fireborn. Gravesinger.
He clenched his fists. “We just stopped a summoning. Why do they look at us like we opened one?”
Maya’s face was pale, unreadable. “Some people just see us as monsters. Powerful ones. Two special kinds of magic..." She trailed off for a moment. "To them, it’s no different.”
Ethan turned sharply. “No different? We saved them.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “Our powers don't inspire gratitude. It appears to unsettle people. They feel it in their bones when I stretch the stream. Like walking over a grave that hasn’t settled. When your anger surges, they half expect to be burned in the fiery rage. They are scared and uncertain."
"Fuck this place," Ethan muttered, and the two of them made their way back to the inn. Thank goodness this was their last night in this place. He wasn't sure if he could take more than that.
That night, in the quiet of their inn, Maya tried to write in her journal. Her hand trembled, blotting the ink. She scrawled furiously, as if chasing something just out of reach. Ethan sat opposite, the silence between them thick.
Finally he asked, “What did you lose this time?”
She froze. Then, without looking up, whispered, “My brother’s face. I know I had one… I know his name. But his face is gone. I can’t recall it. If I don’t write fast enough, more goes.”
Ethan’s heart twisted. "Don't ever do what you did ever again." He warned her. The moment she tried to argue, Ethan shushed. "No. Promise me. Never that far again."
Time was her weapon but even she could admit that she took it too far this time. Losing these many memories this quick was more con than pro. She nodded, agreeing with her companion. "Fine. I promise."
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