Fendrel’s smile widened, a predatory curve on his lips. He lifted one hand, his fingers twitching, and the air around them thrummed with brittle pressure. The cold, damp stone of the chamber wall behind Tully suddenly groaned, not from structural strain, but from something far older. Tiny cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, deepening with impossible speed. Before Tully could react, the stone nearest his head crumbled, falling away in a shower of ancient, powdered grit, revealing the hollow space within the high spire. “Observe,” Fendrel purred, his eyes locked on Brannis, ignoring Carys and Tully for now. “The march of time. A most potent weapon, wouldn’t you agree?” The air rippled again, a sickly yellow distortion shimmering around Fendrel’s outstretched hand. Tully, startled by the crumbling wall, stumbled backward, his oversized halberd clattering against the metallic rim of a dormant bell. The elder's gaze snapped to the boy, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Without a word, Fendrel lashed out, not with a physical blow, but a surge of distorted air, yellow and caustic, aimed straight at Tully’s ribs. Brannis moved. He was a blur of motion, faster than the eye could follow, a dark streak across the flagstones. He slammed into Tully, shoving the novice roughly aside, the halberd skittering across the grimy floor. The blast of aging force, meant for Tully, struck Brannis’s left arm with the force of a battering ram. A searing agony erupted, not just pain, but a sickening sensation of rapid decay. He felt his muscles shrivel, his tendons snap, his very bone structure flaking away within his skin. His arm went limp, hanging uselessly at his side, its flesh withered and greyed in a grotesque parody of age. [RULE BROKEN: PROTECTION OF OTHERS. WARNING. CONSEQUENCES IMMINENT.] The bleeding text appeared on a cracked bell housing, the crimson letters glowing with malevolent light. Brannis didn't flinch, his jaw set. His eyes, usually downcast, were now points of cold, focused fury. His left arm was gone, effectively. The caustic ash had done its work. But Tully was safe. That was all that mattered. “Brannis!” Carys’s voice was sharp, a whip-crack of concern. Her hand went to her side, where a pouch of luminous dust shimmered. Before Fendrel could react to Brannis’s sacrifice, Carys flung the dust into the air, simultaneously weaving a complex series of gestures with her free hand. Immediately, the floor exploded with light. A dozen figures, identical to Brannis in every detail – his greyed academy robes, the limp, withered arm, the dark, intense gaze – materialized across the circular chamber. Each one moved with the same economical grace, some drawing phantom daggers, others taking up defensive stances near the mechanical heart. The phantoms stood crisp and flawless, their details so sharp they seemed to breathe. Fendrel scoffed, his gaze sweeping over the sudden multitude. “A cheap trick, girl. Do you truly believe such childish parlour magic can deter me?” He lashed out again, a wider arc of amber decay, sweeping through three of the phantom Brannises. They vanished in puffs of shimmering light, but the elder's brow furrowed. The sheer number of fakes, and their perfect replication of Brannis’s current state, proved disorienting. “The real Brannis is predictable,” Fendrel muttered, his eyes narrowing as he watched another illusion leap towards him, only to dissipate harmlessly. “Always seeks the shortest approach. The most efficient kill.” He waited. The illusions danced, some feinting, some moving to flank him. He ignored the ones that seemed too aggressive, too obvious. His gaze drifted to a 'Brannis' who stood relatively still, almost hesitant, near a cracked support pillar, his good arm slightly tensed. That felt more like the Brannis he knew, the one who tried to hide his true nature. The one who followed rules, even unwritten ones. Then, another duplicate, far across the chamber, launched himself forward, a sudden, explosive burst of speed. This one was moving with singular focus, a deadly intent radiating even from its illusory form. Fendrel smirked. “There you are.” He didn't move from his spot, simply extended his hand. A spear of crystallized rot, visible as a blurring shaft of yellowed light, burst forth, impaling the charging decoy through the chest. The decoy dissolved, but Fendrel didn't relax. He waited, tracking the remaining phantoms, his senses straining. Moments later, a genuine, physical impact rattled him. A different Brannis, one he had barely registered, slammed into him from his blind spot, the force of the collision staggering the Arch-Curator. This Brannis had launched himself from behind the grotesque mechanical heart, using its bulk as cover. Fendrel roared, a sound of frustrated rage. He brought his glowing pike around, a vicious sweep that tore through the duplicate that had just collided with him. The decoy vanished, but the true Brannis was already there, a dark, solid shape, his remaining good hand reaching. Fendrel snarled, unleashing another piercing lance, aiming for Brannis’s gut. He felt the impact, felt the resistance of real flesh, heard the wet tearing sound. “Fool!” Fendrel crowed, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “You walk right into my trap! One arm, and now a gaping wound. What hope do you have left?” The yellow pike had pierced Brannis clean through, emerging from his back in a sickening display. Blood, thick and dark, bloomed on his grey robes. Brannis coughed, a ragged, wet sound, and a string of blood ran down his chin. But then, to Fendrel’s horror, a slow, blood-stained smile spread across Brannis’s face. His eyes, despite the obvious agony, held a triumphant, terrifying glint. “Hope?” Brannis’s voice was a low, guttural rasp, barely audible above the grinding of the mechanical heart. His good hand, ignoring the spear protruding from his stomach, seized Fendrel’s wrist with impossible strength. “I don’t follow your rules anymore.” With a surge of power, not his own, but something parasitic, something drawn directly from the throbbing, bleeding artifact, Brannis twisted. He channeled the repulsive rot, not into an attack, but into a raw, disruptive shock that violently rejected Fendrel’s hold on the very air. Fendrel's breath snagged in dawning terror as he felt an unseen hand, cold and ancient, shove him backward with astonishing velocity. His feet scrabbled on the grimy stone, unable to find purchase, as Brannis, still impaled, used his last ounce of strength to kick Fendrel into the grinding, bleeding gears of the ticking heart.

Chronal Dust