The sun rose over Eldenbrook, painting the village in gold and shadow. Eryndor stood at the riverbank, the glowing vial in his hand, mind heavy with everything the Archive's guide had told him.
He had practiced carefully, pulling small fragments from the Archive under strict control. Nothing catastrophic had happened… yet.
And then Riven returned.
This time, he did not smile. His eyes burned with a strange intensity, and in his hand, he held a swirling, black orb—the fragment of a future that should never have been disturbed.
"Eryndor," Riven said, voice cold. "You've grown, but not enough. Step aside."
Eryndor swallowed hard. "I won't let you destroy something that doesn't belong to you."
The clash was instant. Riven unleashed the black orb; it expanded into a storm of fractured possibilities. Trees twisted and grew in impossible ways, rivers reversed flow, and the ground shivered beneath their feet.
Eryndor gripped his vial and pulled a fragment from the Archive: a shard of the golden flower from the forest that never burned. It appeared in his hands, radiating warmth and light. He hurled it into the storm.
The fragments collided. Time rippled. The world screamed in silence as impossible things flickered in and out of existence.
Then… everything froze.
The river hung in mid-air. Birds were suspended in flight. Leaves hung motionless in the trees. And at the center, Riven and Eryndor faced each other, locked in a moment stretched beyond time.
"You barely survived," Riven said, voice low. "Next time… I won't hold back."
Before Eryndor could respond, Riven vanished. The storm collapsed, leaving only small ripples across the village.
Eryndor looked at his hands. The vial was empty. The golden flower, the power he had relied on—it was gone.
A voice echoed in his mind—the guide from the Archive:
"You have seen the cost of interfering. The world is fragile, Archivist. And there are those who will challenge you… again. Prepare yourself. Your path is only beginning."
Eryndor exhaled, shaking. He had survived—but barely. He now knew that every choice, every pull from the Archive, carried consequences far beyond his understanding.
And somewhere, beyond the clouds, Riven was watching. Waiting.
The river flowed again. Birds sang. But Eryndor's world had changed forever.
And so had he.