Jevri’s cry, a guttural sound choked by the thickening vapor, was the last clear thing Tashkor heard. The violet mist, dense and strangely viscous, swirled around the apprentice, twisting his form. Tashkor saw the skin on Jevri’s forearm, exposed beneath a rolled-up sleeve, begin to pucker, like ancient parchment left too long in the sun. Fine lines webbed out from his knuckles, deepening, as if etched by an invisible, accelerated hand. His vibrant, youthful hair, moments ago a tousled dark brown, bloomed with threads of ash-gray that spread with terrifying speed. He clawed at his throat, his breath now a rattling gasp, each inhale a struggle against the very fabric of time itself. Jevri, a boy barely out of his apprenticeship, was being flayed of his years, seconds stealing decades. “Jevri!” Tashkor roared, his voice raw, though he knew the sound was swallowed by the sealed corridor’s hum. He hammered on the reinforced plasteel of the drop-gate, the metallic thud lost to the rising whine of the confinement apparatus. His eyes, usually sharp with calculation, darted to the control panel embedded beside the gate. Luminescent glyphs scrolled across its surface, identifying the hazard: ‘Chronal Decay: Unfiltered. Sequestration protocols active.’ Mirev, her face pale, stood frozen beside Tashkor, her earlier fury replaced by a stunned horror. Even Zandrav, still locked in the primary extraction module further down the corridor, must have heard the desperate clang of the sealing doors, the thrum of the emergency barrier. He would be gloating, Tashkor knew, a dark smile on his shrivelled lips at the thought of the refugee boy’s demise. But this wasn't about Zandrav, not now. This was Jevri. His loyal, earnest apprentice. The one who had believed in Tashkor, even when the rest of Paharat had scorned him. The one who represented the very people Tashkor had vowed to protect, even if it meant sacrificing the elites he so despised. [System Alert: Containment integrity at 98.7%. Spillage rate: 0.05 Chrono-units/sec. Host biological consumption recommended to prevent atmospheric saturation.] The cold, objective voice of the Chrono-Artifact cut through Tashkor’s panic. Host biological consumption. It meant someone had to absorb the virulent time-flux. But the only available port, the manual rerouting aperture, was designed for direct integration, a brutal, unfiltered transfer. Zandrav was already an unwilling conduit in the main module, and Mirev, with her vital seed knowledge, was too precious to sacrifice for this. It was a choice Tashkor had always foreseen, but for others, never for himself. The vindictive part of him, the part that relished the elites’ suffering, balked. He, Tashkor, the disgraced thermologist, who hated the very idea of self-sacrifice for the undeserving, was now faced with giving himself up for Jevri. Jevri choked again, a wet, rattling sound. His hands, now spotted with what looked like age-induced liver spots, scrabbled against the invisible barrier of time that encased him. His form flickered, an almost ghost-like transparency around the edges, as if his very substance was dissolving. “No,” Tashkor whispered, the word a desperate plea. He ripped his gaze from Jevri and plunged it back to the console. The schematics blinked, highlighting the manual intake manifold. It was a crude, exposed port, a direct shunt into the Kiln’s core processing, used only for emergency flushes during initial calibration. Anyone who engaged with it would be hit by the raw, untempered discharge, a direct torrent of accumulated stagnation. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second. The image of Jevri’s face, pale and scared, warped by the accelerating years, burned into his mind. His hands, calloused from years of working with conduit alloys and pressure regulators, flew across the interface. He bypassed the safety locks, ignoring Mirev’s gasp of alarm. His fingers danced over the holographic display, inputting the override sequence. The manifold whined, shrieking against the load, but yielded. A circular port, thick with crystalline filaments and humming with banked charge, snapped open on the console, revealing an empty socket, hungry for a connection. “Tashkor, what are you doing?!” Mirev cried, her voice sharp with disbelief. “That’s unfiltered! It will—” “Save him,” Tashkor grated, cutting her off. He shoved his right arm into the waiting aperture. The crystal filaments hummed, then flared. A searing heat, like a thousand tiny needles, lanced through his flesh. It wasn't merely pain; it was an absolute, wrenching sensation of *unmaking*. Every tendon seized as the current of decaying time surged into him, scouring away the years. His vision blurred, white hot agony eclipsing everything. He felt his bones creak, his sinews buckle under false decades. A decade, perhaps more, of his life, violently stripped away. It was a violation, an invasion of his very being. He didn't scream, not truly. It was more of a guttural roar, torn from the depths of his chest, a sound of pure, primal resistance. His knees buckled, but he forced himself to stand, gritting his teeth, his entire body convulsing. The smell of ozone filled the air, acrid and metallic. On the other side of the drop-gate, the violet mist surrounding Jevri began to thin, to dissipate. The younger man’s flickering form solidified. His frantic, aged hands dropped from his throat, his breathing still ragged, but no longer fighting an invisible current. He sagged against the wall, jaw slack, but the rapid decay had stopped. With a final, agonizing surge, the transfer completed. The interface flared once more, then dimmed. Tashkor’s arm, when he yanked it free, felt like lead, heavy and stiff. His hand trembled uncontrollably, knuckles swollen, skin dry and loose. He slumped against the console, his spine flaring with a sharp ache. His joints, especially his knees and shoulders, throbbed with a sudden, unfamiliar stiffness. An unyielding weariness settled into his marrow, dragging at his limbs. He took a gasping breath, the air tasting metallic, his lungs burning. He felt... older. Far older. On the other side of the drop-gate, Jevri slid to the floor, panting, his hair fully gray, his youthful face lined and tired. He looked like he’d aged thirty years in moments, but he was alive. He met Tashkor’s gaze, dazed and hollow-eyed, shadowed by confusion and the stark reality of his new appearance. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Mirev stared at Tashkor’s shaking form, then at Jevri. Her mouth tightened, caught between shock and grudging recognition. “Tashkor…” she began, her voice unusually soft. Before she could say more, the Chrono-Artifact hummed, its holographic projections reappearing. A new diagnostic scrolled across the main screen, its cold, indifferent assessment cutting through the tense silence. [System State: Equilibrium failing. Kiln core temperature rising. Ember-Tide burning hotter than projected. Baseline recalibration required. Projected sustained biological venting still required: 80 years.] Tashkor’s head snapped up. Eighty years. After all that, eighty more years. The price he had just paid, the decade stolen from him, had bought them only a momentary reprieve, a mere fraction of the true cost. The realization hit him like a physical blow. The Kiln was a hungry beast, and the inferno outside was only growing. He closed his eyes, the image of a ravaged, aged Jevri burning behind his eyelids. He had saved the boy, but at what cost, and for how long? The true horror of their situation, the relentless, insatiable hunger of the Nadir-Kiln, settled over him like cooling slag.

The Choice of Time