Time announced itself in ordinary ways.
Hael forgot the name of a street they had walked a hundred times. He laughed it off at first, a soft sound of surprise, as if amused by the betrayal of something so small. But Zyrán noticed the way the laughter ended too quickly, how Hael stood still afterward, as though listening for the missing piece to return.
It didn't.
"I knew it once," Hael said quietly.
Zyrán kept his voice gentle. "You'll remember."
Hael nodded—but he was no longer certain that was true.
Days began to stack instead of blur. Hael woke with stiffness in his joints, with a faint ache in his back that no amount of rest fully eased. His reflection shifted subtly—not enough to alarm anyone else, but enough that he studied it longer than before.
Lines not of age, but of use.
This body was learning what it meant to be spent.
Zyrán marked time differently now. He noticed how often Hael paused to catch his breath. How he sat down where once he would have remained standing. How he slept deeper, longer, and woke slower—as though climbing back into consciousness required effort.
"You're counting," Zyrán said one evening.
Hael looked up from the table. "Counting?"
"The days," Zyrán replied. "You're measuring them."
Hael was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. "I didn't used to know how many I had."
Zyrán's chest tightened. "And now?"
"And now," Hael said softly, "they have edges."
Outside, the world continued its quiet recalibration. Seasons arrived with more insistence. Weather lingered too long in one state before shifting. The city felt… attentive. As if aware that something unrepeatable was unfolding within it.
From a place that was not a place, Samael watched.
He no longer concealed himself from the pattern.
The convergence had slowed—but it had not disappeared. Instead, it had condensed, narrowing around Hael's mortality like a lens. Every human limitation he accepted sharpened the world's response. Every forgotten name, every ache, every breath drawn with effort instead of certainty added weight.
Samael observed without malice.
This was not a moment for cruelty.
This was data.
"So," Samael murmured to the air around him, "you have chosen duration over dominion."
He watched Hael stumble once on the street and recover with Zyrán's steadying hand. Watched Zyrán's leadership soften further, spreading outward as he learned to leave earlier, to rest more, to trust others with what he once held himself.
Love was no longer expanding.
It was settling.
Samael's expression sharpened with something like respect.
A mortal life had length.
A limit.
A terminus.
And now that Hael was fully inside it, the equation had changed.
"This is where it becomes interesting," Samael said quietly.
Because mortality did something power never could.
It made sacrifice irreversible.
That night, Zyrán lay awake beside Hael, listening to his breathing—slower now, deeper, uneven in places. Each breath felt counted, not by fear, but by awareness.
"You're thinking too loudly," Hael murmured.
Zyrán smiled faintly. "You always hear me."
"While I can," Hael said, not unkindly.
Zyrán turned toward him. "Do you regret it?"
Hael didn't hesitate.
"No," he said. "But I am learning what it means to run out."
Zyrán reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers. "Then we'll spend it well."
Hael closed his eyes, the ache in his body real, undeniable—and still acceptable.
Far away, Samael watched the moment seal itself.
Time had entered the story fully now.
And with it came the only question that mattered:
Not whether something would end—
but what would remain when it did.