Splash. Splash.

The water slid down Hazel’s face, warm and grounding, dripping from his chin in a slow rhythm that mimicked his breath. He stared into the cracked mirror above the washbasin, lips parted slightly as though he were about to speak.

Today mattered.

He gave a nervous smile, the kind that fought Its way through anxiety and excitement all at once. Then he whispered to his reflection:

“It’s time—today’s the day.”

Hazel wiped his face dry and shrugged on his father’s worn, military-style coat. It was the only piece of his family he had left—besides the silver bracelet he never took off. A smooth, intricate band that once belonged to his mother. It hummed faintly with dormant Spirit energy, but never activated. Much like Hazel himself.

Today was the Spirit Trial.

Seventeen years had passed since Spirit energy burst into the world like wild lightning. People called it different names—magic, evolution, divine punishment. But Hazel had been born into it. This world of monsters and gifts, of ruin and rebirth, was all he knew.

He’d dreamed of awakening with Ice affinity—a rare and beautiful gift that could control glaciers and weather itself. Not for vanity. For purpose.

Because ten years ago, his parents disappeared on an expedition to Mount Grivahn—a massive, snow-covered mountain steeped in Spirit energy. No one who went looking for them ever returned. Only rumors trickled down: of shifting weather, sudden storms, strange echoes in the air.

Hazel was sure Ice was the key. To climb Grivahn. To understand what happened. To bring them home.

“You’re walking like someone headed to their funeral.”

Hazel glanced sideways to see Nari, pacing up beside him. Short, sharp-tongued, and the only person he trusted more than himself. She was already in full Spirit uniform, the Trial emblem glowing faintly on her shoulder.

“Just trying not to pass out before we even get there,” Hazel replied.

She smirked. “I’d catch you. Probably laugh a little first.”

He shook his head with a grin.

The city of Lyndara loomed ahead, alive with energy. Today, the city’s center—the Spirit Hall—would decide the fates of dozens of hopefuls. The Spirit Pool, a basin of concentrated energy, had never failed to reveal an individual’s affinity. Fire, Stone, Light, Wind, Ice, or something stranger. Everyone had something. Eventually.

Inside the Hall, the line moved quickly. Candidates stepped forward, one by one, placed their hands into the Pool, and awakened.

Hazel watched, heart pounding. Flames erupted around one girl. A boy burst into laughter as his skin shimmered like steel. Another sprouted wings.

Then—

“Hazel.”

He stepped forward. The room felt colder than before, even though no ice had been summoned yet.

He knelt by the Pool and extended his hand, fingers trembling.

The moment his skin touched the surface, everything went quiet.

But nothing happened.

No flash. No transformation.

Just a low hum.

He waited.

A minute passed. Whispers crept in from the corners of the hall.

Then, finally, a subtle glow bloomed beneath the water. Symbols—not of fire or wind—but of gears, clocks, spirals. An affinity unseen in the past decade.

The Elders stiffened.

One of them whispered, “Chrono-thread…”

Hazel blinked, pulling his hand back. “Wait—what did I get?”

Nari stepped forward. “Chrono-what?”

The head Elder gave Hazel a measured look. “You’ve been marked by Time.”

Hazel blinked again, disoriented. “That’s not even an element.”

“It’s rare. Unpredictable. Most don’t survive long enough to master it. It’s… a quiet affinity. Subtle. No fireballs. No ice.”

Hazel’s heart sank. “So it’s useless.”

“It’s not useless,” Nari cut in. “It’s… mysterious.”

He sighed, stepping away. “Great. I got mysterious.”

That night, Hazel sat in his small rooftop space, staring at the stars. The bracelet on his wrist had started to glow faintly. That had never happened before.

Nari joined him, two cups of hot vine-root in hand.

“You gonna sulk until sunrise?”

“I just thought I’d get something strong. Something useful.”

“Time is literally how everything moves,” she said. “Sounds important to me.”

He smiled weakly. “Yeah, but I can’t do anything.”

She held out her hand. “Then try. Let’s see what happens.”

He looked at her palm, then at his bracelet. The silver band shimmered again, syncing with the sigil on his hand. He took a breath, focused.

Everything slowed.

Birds froze mid-flight. The wind stilled. Nari’s blink hung in the air like a photograph.

Hazel panicked.

And in that panic—his heart racing—he pushed.

The world inverted.

When he opened his eyes, they were no longer on the rooftop.

They were surrounded by snow.

Trees stretched high above them, and thick flakes fell from the sky. There was no city skyline. No lights. Just wilderness.

“Hazel?” Nari stood, brushing frost from her shoulders. “Where the hell are we?”

He stared at the distant mountain, its peak cutting through the clouds like a blade.

“That’s Mount Grivahn,” he said, voice hollow.

“No,” she whispered, turning slowly. “No, no—how did we get here?”

Hazel checked his sigil. The markings had changed. A different pattern—simpler, older.

“We went back.”

She frowned. “How far?”

Hazel looked at the snow patterns, the wild trees—not yet twisted by Spirit energy.

Then he looked at the calendar built into the bracelet’s edge.

“Ten years,” he breathed. “We’re ten years in the past.”

Nari froze. “That’s… when your parents—”

“Disappeared,” he finished.

They both turned to the mountain.

Hazel’s pulse raced. “They’re here. Somewhere.”

The wind carried a distant howl. Not from an animal—but something stranger.

“We can’t change the past,” Nari warned, already sensing the weight of it. “Not without consequences.”

“I don’t care,” Hazel said. “I didn’t ask to come here. But now that we are—maybe we can just… see. Watch. Understand what happened.”

She stared at him, expression unreadable. Then nodded.

“Okay. Then let’s find them.”

The wind howled against the cave walls, whistling through cracks like nature’s cruel lullaby.

Outside, the sky churned a deep gray, clouds bleeding into each other. The storm would hit before midnight—of that, they were sure.

“It’s gonna be a cold night,” Nari muttered, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Not like any other night isn’t on this nearly lifeless mountain…”

Soft chuckles bounced gently across the dim cave, the fire’s amber light flickering as breezes poked through. Nari smiled faintly, but Hazel just stared into the flames, lost in the dance of orange and red.

“I still can’t believe you think your power is useless,” she said, gently, but firm.

Hazel scoffed. “Well, look where the powers you admire got us.”

His voice was sharp with sarcasm, but not at her—at himself. A jagged self-mockery that had become his default. Twelve days on Mount Grivahn had worn him thin. Between near-starvation and freezing nights, the weight of time—literally—was crushing him.

They had survived on whatever small animals they could catch—half-frozen squirrels, hares, and once, a wild chicken-looking bird that nearly killed Nari before she torched it. Her fire affinity had kept them alive: warmth, light, cooked food. Hazel, by contrast, had barely dared to use his abilities since the incident that flung them into the past.

What if he made it worse?

What if they skipped another decade, or tore a hole in time itself?

After a week of trudging through the southern slope, only to find wreckage and snow-swept ruins, they made a hard decision: go around.

The western path was brutal—steeper, colder—but recent storms had reshaped the terrain. Tracks were buried. Caves collapsed. Whatever signs they’d hoped to find had been erased.

“We try the other side,” Nari had said. “Or we freeze to death here wishing we had.”

So they did. And on the ninth day, as snow fell in thick curtains and visibility dropped to nothing, they heard a sound that stopped them both mid-step:

A faint, desperate cry.

Hazel turned first, scanning the wind-beaten cliffside. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Nari said, narrowing her eyes. “It came from below.”

They followed the sound down a sloped ledge, half-sliding, half-falling, until they came across a small hollow carved into the mountain—a place not much bigger than a closet.

Inside was something Hazel had never seen before.

It looked like a wolf, but not quite. Its body shimmered with silver fur that pulsed faintly with blue energy. Tiny, almost translucent wings twitched at its back, and glowing spiral symbols wrapped around its tail like ancient tattoos.

It was a Spirit Beast, freshly hatched.

And it was crying.

“Its egg cracked early,” Nari murmured, kneeling. “It hasn’t seen its mother.”

Hazel stared, speechless.

The beast trembled as she reached for it—then, cautiously, nuzzled into her palm.

The bond happened instantly.

The air around them surged with power as Nari’s sigil flared to life. The Spirit Beast glowed and let out a soft hum—like a sigh of relief—as a spiritual thread wrapped around her wrist, sealing the contract.

Hazel blinked. “You just… tamed it?”

“Not tamed,” Nari said softly, eyes still locked on the creature. “Adopted.”

They named it Kiro.

Kiro became a steady presence—guarding them at night, warning them of nearby dangers, even scouting small paths they wouldn’t have seen otherwise. Nari was protective, almost maternal, and Kiro clearly adored her.

On the twelfth day, while climbing the mid-ridge path, Hazel heard the first sign of danger.

Hooves.

Not the graceful kind.

These were sharp. Heavy. Fast.

The mountain goats of Grivahn were no ordinary animals. Mutated by years of Spirit energy, their horns curved like swords and their eyes glowed with a sickly green light. Territorial and vicious, they struck without warning.

And they came in numbers.

“Hazel, MOVE!” Nari shouted as the first beast lunged.

He dove aside just as a horn smashed into the cliff where he’d been standing.

Kiro leapt forward, barking beams of light, trying to scatter them. Nari formed a wall of flame, forcing some of the goats to rear back. But more came—six, eight, ten.

They were surrounded.

Hazel backed into a corner of rock, heart pounding.

“I can’t—” he started.

“Yes, you CAN!” Nari roared. “Do something! Or we die here!”

He clenched his fists.

The power surged inside him like a storm. The world blurred. His bracelet pulsed.

And time—

Stopped.

The air froze.

Snowflakes hung midair like stars. Goats locked mid-charge. Kiro, mid-leap, paused in a perfect arc.

Hazel stood up slowly, breathing hard.

He moved between the beasts, one by one, gently pushing them aside. Pulling Nari away from the fray. Even guided Kiro down safely to the ground.

He didn’t know how long he could hold it.

Time snapped back.

With a burst of light and sound, the goats slammed into nothing. They stumbled in confusion—Hazel and Nari were gone, the battlefield empty.

From a hidden ridge above, the two of them watched in silence, hearts pounding.

Hazel collapsed to the ground, hands trembling.

“I… I did it.”

Nari knelt beside him, grinning wide. “You just saved our lives.”

Hazel stared at his hands, then the mountain.

And for the first time, the weight in his chest lifted—just a little.

Time wasn’t a weapon.

It was a gift.

Maybe.