The disturbance did not come as fire or shadow.
It came as delay.
Lys noticed it first when the wind hesitated.
Not stopped—hesitated. As if the world had briefly forgotten which moment it was supposed to be in. The hairs along his arms lifted, seals tightening instinctively.
"Did you feel that?" Nyra asked, hand already on one blade.
Elda frowned. "No spell was cast."
"That's the problem," Valerius muttered. "Something changed without doing anything."
A figure stood at the far edge of Ashfall Ridge.
None of them had seen him arrive.
He was young—older than Lys, perhaps seventeen or eighteen—but carried himself with an unsettling stillness. His hair was pale, almost colorless, falling neatly to his shoulders. He wore simple traveling clothes, unmarked by ash, unburned by heat, untouched by the chaos of the ridge.
Too untouched.
Most striking were his eyes.
They were silver-gray, calm and distant, with pupils that seemed to tick—not moving like Lys's dragon eyes, but shifting subtly, as if marking invisible intervals.
The boy looked around, then smiled faintly.
"So this is the version where you survive," he said.
Everyone froze.
Nyra moved first—vanishing in a blur, blade flashing toward the stranger's throat.
She passed through him.
The boy did not flinch.
Nyra skidded to a halt behind him, spinning around. "He didn't dodge."
"No," Elda said quietly, dread creeping into her voice. "He wasn't there."
The boy finally looked at Lys.
And when their gazes met, Lys felt it—an overwhelming pressure behind the eyes, as if a thousand moments were collapsing into one. His dragon pupils narrowed instantly, heat flaring under his skin.
The boy tilted his head, curious.
"Ah," he said. "Dragon eyes. Good. That means you're closer to the correct path than most outcomes."
"Who are you?" Lys demanded, forcing his voice steady.
The boy considered the question—actually considered it, as if choosing which answer belonged to this moment.
"My name doesn't matter yet," he replied. "But I am an incarnation. A compromise."
Valerius's grip tightened on his sword. "Of what?"
The boy's smile thinned.
"Of inevitability."
The air around him rippled—not with power, but with misalignment. Small stones lifted, then fell twice. A crack in the ridge sealed itself, then reappeared a step to the left.
Elda's breath caught. "Chronal displacement…"
Lys took a step forward. Every instinct screamed at him—this was not an enemy he could burn.
"You're connected to the Time Dragon," Lys said.
The boy's eyes softened—almost sadly.
"Yes," he admitted. "I am what it sends when it does not wish to be seen. A voice that can walk forward while it watches from everywhere else."
Nyra scoffed. "That's a lot of words for a spy."
The boy glanced at her—and for half a second, Nyra aged.
Just a flicker. A breath. Enough for her to stagger, heart pounding.
Then it was gone.
The boy exhaled. "Careful. I don't enjoy demonstrating."
Lys clenched his fists. "Why are you here?"
The incarnation looked back at him, expression unreadable.
"To confirm something," he said. "Whether you are a variable… or a fixed point."
Silence stretched.
Then he stepped backward—and the world failed to agree on where he went.
He was simply not in this moment anymore.
The wind resumed.
The heat returned.
Nyra swore under her breath. Valerius looked pale. Even Elda's hands were shaking.
Lys stared at the place where the boy had stood, dragon eyes burning.
Somewhere far beyond sight, beyond shadow, beyond fire—
Time had blinked.
And it had blinked at him.