They, however, seem to forget that Entropy, decay into balance, is responsible for much more than the loss of their kin. It encompasses the decay that allows their crop waste to fertilize their soil, it disperses the heat from their fireplaces about their homes for warmth.

On my higher physical plane of existence, Entropy maintains the balance of the fabric. It erases anomalies, prevents the unnatural from reigning, and, most importantly, keeps the natural process of life on its ever advancing march forward, be it for better or worse.

Unfortunately, my name has been used to justify many a terrible cause. Among the mortals are a number of cults, insistent that my will is to needlessly destroy and eager to follow this false belief.

It is one of these cults, a mere decade ago, that summons forth a dragon, believing, in their infinite hubris, that they may tame it.

They do not. With a roar loud enough to flinch Space itself, the beast sets the village they had inhabited alight. The blaze illuminates the night sky for four days; I neither help nor hinder it. Until the final coal fizzles out, I simply ensure that the ashes, both of buildings and those whom the tragedy claimed, scatter where they should. It is no matter of pleasure for me to crumble the innocent souls caught in the blaze to dust; it is simply my function.

This task preoccupies me to such an extent, I never notice that a single survivor escapes the carnage.

Though the dragon evaporates all those who summoned it, they are a small fraction of the cultists in this world. The remainder continue droning their pledges of grand destruction at me, completely unaware of the fallen.

I remain fixed on their demands when the voice of a girl rings out through the murk of my domain.

“Lord of Ash.”

Through the bogs she wades, caked in pungent mud and oozing cuts. Decay has begun to eat her alive, but she does not falter. Step by limping step, she drags herself out of the fog into my clear view. Her eyes burn, not with malice, but with raw determination.

“I-”

While her willpower is strong, no mortal can hold steady in her physical state. The girl sways on her feet, before her eyes roll back and she falls backward into the water with a quiet splash.

Wild arrives in short time, the essence of lavender and mulberries permeating the slow rot of the swamps. They face me in mortal form, fingers fidgeting through their long, flower-woven braid.

“I hope this is a fine time to visit.”

Visits are deliberate. I know they come with a request, as do I know what it is.

“You have come for the girl, but I sense there is something more.”

They hang their head in sorrow. A pink orchid falls out of their hair, crumbling to dust on contact with the mud below.

“She is without a place to call home. I have followed her journey from town to town along the river Leisner, watching each time as she is turned away by the villagers.”

It is then that I finally discover the sole survivor of the burning village. Why she has come to seek me is not yet clear, but the possible reasons are now few.

“She is of the cultists then?”

“Of, but not one herself. They do not care; she has been branded as a witch. Few would care to aid a witch, even if they are far beyond the era of being burned at the stake.”

Between where we stand, the swamp bubbles, the skull of an animal long since extinct breaking the surface. Wild is the youngest of us, but they have existed long enough to read sentiments from the shifts in our domains.

“I see that I have moved you, if only slightly. Would that twinge of emotion be enough to convince you to aid her?”

“She is not yet dead; I have no claim on her soul. If you intend to move her to safety, I would not stop you. I know how deeply you care for your creations.”

They are visibly unsatisfied with my response.

“I do intend to move her to safety, though that is not what I meant.”

“I will need more context then.”

Though they narrow their eyes and glare me down, Wild obliges.

“In truth, a witch she is; that is to say a practitioner of magic. However, she is no druid. I cannot help her.”

Their eyes shine with something; pride perhaps?

“She is attuned to your domain, Entropy. It is how, unlike the cultists that attempt to call upon your power, she has managed to find this place.”

Another pair of bones break the surface of the water at my feet. Wild is correct to note that the cultists are not attuned to my ring; they do not pursue order, but rather chaos, regardless of whether they claim to do so in my name. I remain uncertain as to how one of their children has strayed from this path.

My call is immediate, yet noncommittal.

“I will listen to the girl. If she speaks true, I shall aid her.”

- Mason Taul

The same as every morning, I wake to the harsh light of the rising sun streaming through my window. Wasting no time to start my day, I slink toward the ddor, unracking my light armour silently as to not wake my bunkmate. The door makes an obnoxious creak as I slowly open it to slip out of the room, but fortunately, Dahlia does not stir. I’d feel terrible if I accidentally woke her up an hour early for the second time this week, even if she insists that it isn’t that big of a deal.

The first thing on the docket is breakfast, as it should be. At around half past five, the mess hall is nearly empty. Out of a few hundred seats, only a couple dozen are filled. I’m not surprised, I never am, as only a few types of people would be moving through their day at this time. As a small test, to make sure I’m operating at full awareness, I scan the room for some figures I vaguely recognize.

In the far corner of the room, a pair of guards munch lazily on their eggs. The one facing me looks about ready to drop. Those have to be the night shifters. This would probably be closer to their dinner than breakfast; if they have any regards for their health or sanity, they’ll be hitting the hay right after this. It’s possible that, unless they took a rest before their shift, they’ve both been awake for close to a day straight.

A group of six several tables to the left of where I’m standing are clustered together, leaning over something. They’re too quiet to overhear, but the intense hand gestures from a few in the group make me guess that they’re arguing about something. I can only see about two of their faces somewhat clearly. The first looks to be in his mid-twenties and about as exhausted as the night-shifters. He grips a large folder, clearly overfilled with papers, hard enough that his fingers are white. The second is a woman probably approaching fifty. Her officer’s jacket pins her as a captain or a similar rank. However, the tricorn hat that she wears isn’t standard for any branch of the Sevian military or royal guard I’m aware of.

“You’re mumbling to yourself again Kayle.”

I jump, luckily able to suppress a yelp at the sudden voice behind me. I swing around, giving Mason a quick smack upside the head. He doesn’t even flinch, just shrugs it off and laughs to himself.

“You free right after breakfast to train?”

Mason is General Taul’s son. He’s been training with weapons from about the time he could walk. I managed to take out my own knee with a training sword last week. I want to ask why he wouldn’t try to get some training with one of the other skilled swords. Because I’ve already been silent for a bit too long, I scramble to put together something that turns out a bit less composed.

“I- uh- me?”

He crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes at me.

“Yeah, you. Who else?”

Jean, Dahlia, or probably one of the higher ranking officers if he’s looking for suggestions. Obviously, the question is rhetorical, so I just nod in acknowledgement. Mason takes this as a good enough response, heading off to the serving counter. As I turn to follow behind him, I catch something out of the corner of my eye.

The man with the folder, while carefully shuffling through his papers, is staring directly at me.

- Klavian Vos

“Time is a dangerous thing to play with.”

That has been my creed for as long as I can recall. I mumble it to myself once more as I step off the tram.

I was quite surprised when Klava mentioned alleged traces of chronomantic activity in Rosven of all places. Looking at the small village in front of me, I could understand a bit more now. This place was quiet and a pain to reach; likely the best to be in to avoid being found for as long as possible.

The best place to be to avoid me.

Putting a hand toward my belt to confirm my blade is still lodged firmly in its holster, I take my first few steps down the road.

…

Nearly the second I step into the bar, people near the door seem to shift away from me. I suppose it’s only fair; a man wearing a full set of silver plated armour is seldom a sign of something good.

Through the shuffling of boots, I can hear a voice ring out from the far corner of the room; panic masked behind a veil of false confidence.

“You shouldn’t have found me yet, Raven Knight”

Sure that this is my target, I quickly unsheathe my blade, ready for battle. The man, tutting as he steps out from behind the bar counter, stares at me deadpan.

“Now, now, let’s not be rude. Best to take this outside, wouldn’t you think?”

Begrudgingly, I lower my weapon, though I never sheath it.

“I suppose we can be civil about this.”

For someone who has broken some of the most fundamental laws of existence, I’ll concede he’s surprisingly true to his word. He does, in fact follow me outside into the street.

“Appreciate that Raven. They shouldn’t be punished for what I’ve done.”

While I shouldn’t, it feels rude not to show some courtesy for his good manners. I remove my helmet, allowing a proper view of my face.

“I’ll be honest with you; I am required to kill you at this point no matter what you do from here. That is to be the fate of any soul who traverses time I may meet.”

The gent does not react; many in his position don’t. Almost always, if you’re clever enough to travel through time, you’re knowledgeable enough to know that the Aetherials will want your head.

“I sense a ‘but’ coming along.”

I snort a bit at his remark. Of course, he’s right.

“But, I am no monster. If you have any last words you’d like to get off of your consciousness, you may speak them now.”

To my shock, he throws his sword away, laughing.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I failed to save my family from... him.”

The last word is spat as if it’s poison off his tongue. I faintly see him shiver at the thought of whomever ‘he’ is.

Though I am duty bound, my curiousity, and perhaps a bit of pity, gets the better of me.

“I cannot save your family, but I can make sure ‘he’ never kills again. Please, would you give me a name so I may see him brought what he deserves?”

He responds with the tone and lack of hesitation present only in a dead man.

“Gosmer Reynes.”

With that, he nods. I run my blade through his heart cleanly; a death ordained by the code I’m sworn to, but painless as a man already as tortured as him deserves.

“May the Aetherials judge you with favour.”