» Three days prior - Just after Callian parted from Powder and Vi.
Callian casually strolled down the dimly lit street, lost in thought.
Vander was certainly an interesting man—as were his adoptive children.
They were… different from what he remembered. Vastly so.
But he supposed that was only natural. They hadn't yet been hardened by age—or by tragedy. That, at least, was something he could understand.
As they were now, they were soft. Sheltered. Protected from the gritty, unforgiving reality of the Lanes by their well-known status as 'Vander's children'.
But still… even so, their difference from their older counterparts was… extreme.
Extreme enough for him to doubt whether they were even the same people—despite the glaring evidence to suggest so.
The man began to drum his fingers upon the inside of his coat pocket, its rhythm quickening in tandem with his racing thoughts.
There must have been a turning point for them—just as there had been for him. A spark that began their fateful change.
The question was—why did he not know of it?
They must have known of this… tipping point—surely.
The drumming stopped abruptly.
Then again—he was never supposed to travel back this far in the first place.
He had overshot their destination by a minimum of six months—at the very least. His interference in the timeline wasn't meant to begin until then.
Perhaps the topic was not discussed during their many planning conversations simply because they didn't intend to change its outcome.
Yes, that made sense.
For now, he would just have to trust in fate to deliver this much-needed change—and keep his meddling to a necessary minimum.
There was no point in dwelling on this matter any longer. This problem would solve itself, given time.
Callian's mind then returned to the present, far more pressing matter at hand.
He had already formulated a plan. A way to earn himself a place beneath Vander's wide umbrella of influence—while remaining free of the careful man's suspicion.
His gift to Powder had been a spontaneous decision—born originally of lingering attachment, but ultimately made real due to pragmatic reasoning.
All he needed to do now was breathe life into the fire that he had started.
Callian glanced upward, violet eyes scanning the layered, rusted network of piping entangled above him.
His gaze flicked back toward the street below—a rare moment of indecision overtaking him.
Then his metallic boots hissed, and he exploded into the air—propelled upward by a surge of mechanically induced heat.
His coat's ends fluttered rapidly, neatly coming to rest as he landed upon the lowest level of Entresol's suspended walkways.
Callian's eyes turned right, toward the next street level which lay directly across from his newly elevated position.
Then he unbuttoned his coat, reaching inside and carefully withdrawing an ornate steel watch.
It was a trinket he had been given shortly before his departure to this timeline.
The watch was old—despite how flawless it appeared to be.
Lumen had rebuilt it many, many times—replacing its older parts with newer ones in an endless cycle of refinement.
This timepiece was his legacy—and it had many, many functions.
Callian's eyes scanned its complex-looking face, finding the miniature compass embedded within its glassy, central dial.
He pivoted, turning on the spot until its tiny needle pointed eastward.
Satisfied, he replaced the watch within his coat—and began to run.
He sprinted across the layered latticework of support beams, piping and railing—deftly navigating his way across the man-made web of crooked steel.
He kept his pace just barely within the range of an ordinary human—to avoid the suspicion of anyone who might glance up and spot him.
The winding streets below the man gradually sloped downward—sinking deeper and deeper into Zaun's cavernous abyss.
In tandem with this, the green streetlamps that lined Entresol's layered streets also grew scarcer—thinning out the further he travelled.
Callian's sharp gaze tracked ahead, keen eyes quickly locating the district's final, distant row of glowing verdant lamps.
Beyond that—lay Zaun's Eastside caverns.
Eastside was by far the largest of Zaun's abandoned districts—forsaken after a widespread collapse that rendered its cave systems uninhabitable during the colder seasons.
At the current time of year—not even the underground's hardy, luminescent fungi could manage to survive its bitter, unforgiving cold.
The district's tall streets lay in ruin—abandoned by builders who saw no reason to maintain a district that could only be lived in during the warmest harvest months.
And even then, despite the increased ventilation, the Eastside air had grown so thin that very few people bothered to migrate there during that brief, livable period.
Back in his youth—Callian had been one of those few.
Every year, he would gather a hoard of glowing fungi and relocate to a decrepit mansion that was hidden away in the depths of Eastside.
It was spacious—unlike the flimsy steel shacks of the Outskirts or the cramped, overpriced apartments of Entresol. Back then—it had been a nice break from both.
It was this seasonal hideaway that he now sought—the stash of money his younger self had hidden inside it, his goal.
The fund would be sorely missed—but his younger self would have newer, far more lucrative opportunities available to him soon—if not already.
Minutes passed as Callian dropped steadily lower—descending the caverns' intertwining supports and plunging deeper into the abyssal blackness of Eastside.
Eventually, the final stretch of piping ended—merging with the rocky floor of the cavern below.
Now only the streets remained—layered no longer—and half submerged beneath a mix of rubble, earth and stone.
These streets were far easier to navigate—with distinct landmarks Callian could recall and use to orient the shadowed, ruined district.
The man increased his pace.
There was no need for caution any longer. Nobody ventured out here at this time of year—and even if they had, nobody would be able to see through this blackness.
Nobody but him.
Another few minutes of travel later, and the mansion finally came into view.
The large, crumbling estate was exactly as Callian remembered it.
Its building's entire west wing had collapsed inward—likely due to its poorly manufactured supports.
The manor grounds were strewn with gravel, a winding decorative stone path cutting through the sea of pebbles and leading towards the building's entrance.
Callian slowed, coming to a halt before the rusted iron fencing which ringed the property's edge.
After a moment's consideration, he began to circle it in search of the perimeter entrance.
He had made memories here. Many of them.
The man glanced up at the building's long-broken windows—and froze in place.
A faint orange glow flickered from within the mansion's dining room.
A fire.
Callian's casual mindset shifted toward one of veteran focus.
He stalked forward, dampening his footsteps to a quiet that was bare of silence.
He reached the gate and slipped past it—prowling his way across the manor grounds.
The man climbed the ornate stone steps softly, headed toward the mansion's grand, elevated entrance.
Its doors too—like the gate—had been left ajar.
Callian slipped inside, creeping through the manor's empty, unlit hallways with a rising trepidation.
In all his years of living here during harvest, nobody had visited this place—not once.
Callian's apprehension lessened.
But, it wasn't the harvest season right now. He had travelled back to frost.
Could it be—?
He neared the dining room—his steps still light with caution.
The door was wide open.
He stepped inside. Slowly.
A small fire burned in the hearth—its orange light casting long shadows that danced across the surrounding walls.
The flames were dying—the shrivelled mass of charred fungi no longer serving as an adequate source of fuel.
The long dining table was wrecked—cleaved in two by the corpse embedded in its centre.
Callian glanced to his left.
A second, smaller body lay beside the window—a crude shank speared through the centre of its right eye.
The creature's dark grey fur was matted—its face covered in a trail of bloody tears.
The two were Zonai—a parent and a child.
Callian's pulse quickened, his gaze flickering toward an empty space that lay beyond the ruined table.
He remembered this.
But there was one body missing. The third.
Where was the third?
The man walked across the room stiffly—his movements rigid with unease—heading toward the living room door.
It was shut, unlike the rest he had seen so far.
Callian's eyes found the doorknob. It was smudged—covered in a messy, bloody handprint.
He grasped it—reluctantly. Then turned it.
An uncontrollable apprehension began to needle at the edges of his mind.
Still, he pushed the door open.
Its rusted hinges creaked loudly.
Callian's gaze hit the floor.
Then his mind ruptured.
His usual, ironlike restraint liquefied underneath a surge of sudden, burning fury.
A boy lay sprawled on the carpet.
A human boy.
The left side of his face had been ripped apart—the flesh of his cheeks strewn across the floor beside him.
There were teeth there too—mixed in with the stringy flesh torn from the base of his savaged gums.
Deep, scattered claw marks had been raked across his neck and arms, drawing a lattice of thin red streaks all over his pale, lifeless skin.
His short, dark blue hair lay in disarray.
He had been pinned down—and torn apart. Alive.
Callian's gaze twisted—grinding toward the room's rightmost corner.
A lone dead Zonai lay sat upon a plush, dust-covered armchair—its head slumped backwards over the seat's headrest.
The fur surrounding its mouth and neck was covered in blood.
Whose it was exactly—he didn't know.
A knife lay buried at a sickening depth within its eye—this one crafted from steel and wood, rather than clumsily bandaged iron.
Callian's hands trembled.
Shimmer-induced paranoia savaged the front of his psyche—prompting the beginning of wild, spiralling thoughts.
This time, he did not bother trying to suppress them.
Because there was a chance they might be right.
The scar that cut through the corner of his lips seared with a burning, phantom pain.
Why… why was he dead?
This was not how it was supposed to go.
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