Dawn broke over the battlefield with a gray light that made everything look lifeless. The ground was soaked, the air heavy with the smell of smoke and ash. Emily sat near the fire, her hands still trembling. She could feel the faint pulse of the brass key against her chest, weaker than before but still alive. Nathan was asleep nearby, his head resting on his arm, the lines of exhaustion deep around his eyes.

She watched him for a long time, thinking about the night before. The light, the healing, the way the world had bent around her—it was beyond anything she could explain. She didn’t know if she had saved lives or rewritten time itself.

Thomas brought her a cup of water. “You should drink,” he said.

She nodded but didn’t move. “Do you think I did something wrong?”

He sat beside her, sighing. “I don’t think right or wrong matters anymore. The men think you’re a miracle. Some think you’re an omen. Either way, they’ll follow you now.”

“I don’t want followers,” she said quietly. “I just want to fix what’s broken.”

Thomas looked toward the horizon. “Then maybe that’s why you were sent here.”

Later that morning, Nathan woke and joined her. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Tired. Like something inside me burned out.”

He studied her face. “You scared me yesterday. I thought you’d disappear in that light.”

“I almost did,” she said softly.

Nathan rubbed his jaw. “Whatever’s happening, it’s connected to my father. His journal mentioned something called the Circle of Healers. He believed there were others before us who could bend time with compassion. Maybe that’s what this is.”

“Then your father wasn’t just studying history,” she said. “He was part of it.”

He nodded slowly. “Maybe both.”

As the soldiers prepared to move again, Emily packed her few belongings—the key, the fragment, and the journal. Each felt heavier than before. When she turned to leave, she saw movement near the burned hill. Three figures stood in the distance, faint and transparent like smoke.

She blinked, thinking her eyes were playing tricks, but they remained. They looked human, dressed in uniforms from different wars—one from the Civil War, another from World War I, and one she didn’t recognize at all. They stood silently, watching her.

When she took a step forward, one of them lifted his hand and pointed toward the east. Then they faded into the morning fog.

“Nathan,” she whispered. “Did you see them?”

He followed her gaze but saw nothing. “See who?”

“There were people there. Soldiers, but not from here. They pointed east.”

He frowned. “Maybe the next piece of your gate lies that way.”

She didn’t argue. Something deep inside told her the vision was real. The gate wasn’t just about time—it was about all who had tried to heal the wounds of the world before her.

That night, as they camped by the river, she opened the journal again. A new sentence had appeared at the bottom of the last page, glowing faintly: “Follow the lost. They will show you the heart of the circle.”

Emily touched the words and whispered, “Then east it is.”

Nathan nodded beside her. “Then we ride at first light.”

The river whispered through the dark, carrying reflections of the stars. The world was changing, and Emily knew she was running out of time—whatever time meant anymore.