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Book One of the fantasy series Paradox Chronicles. |
| The Paradox Chronicles Book One: Covenant of Dusk By D.C. Fergerson and C.J. Morales Prologue The winds were still in the arctic flats of Abolutia. On this day, in this frozen wasteland, the glass-like sheet of ice that stretched for miles reflected the clear sky of a seemingly perpetual dawn. The sun was not visible over the eastern horizon here, but its soft yellow light brought color to the pristine, crystalline land. In just a few short months, a new frost would join the glacial mass of this frozen continent, and with it would come half a year of darkness. The supernatural cold of this land could be felt hundreds of miles away. Even as the temperatures were below what any man or beast could survive, there was much to be done here on this night. A lone tower of perfect crystal sat in the center of this place, the northernmost point on the world of Eldukaris, standing triumphantly above the icy landscape. Its translucence took on the color of its natural backdrop, making it nearly impossible to see from a distance greater than a few short miles. It was one of the Tower of Abolutia’s unique defenses. The tower was a magical place, protected from the elements, and its inhabitants were blissfully unscathed by the cruel terrain just outside their doors. Here, a god that was once a man stood in his library. Having ascended to the throne of God of Time, his knowledge was infinite. Yet he still retained his books, each one bound in smooth red leather and gold trim. Their magical protections against wear, fire, and water had kept them perfectly preserved through millennia immemorial. Hundreds of tomes were meticulously displayed on the dark ironwood shelves that lined three of the four walls of his study, from the smooth stone floor to the fifteen-foot ceiling. Each one was a remnant of his past life, of which he could not seem to let go. His desk was behind him as he faced the far wall, looking at the nearly identical spines of each of his treasured volumes, marked in the language of a world dead for nearly a hundred millennia. Each event on this world hung on every movement he made. He reflected on the passage of time, and his effect on it, watching improbable and undesired futures slip into obscurity. He forced contradictions, wrinkles in his tapestry of time, to unravel and reveal themselves as coincidence. It was a chore of the timeline that he had grown accustomed to, like washing clothes or raking leaves - clean the dirty, organize the chaos. That is, if one’s chores involved washing a circus tent with a toothbrush or raking the lush taiga of Derusia with forceps, he thought. The God of Time affected everything on the world outside this tower. Should he choose to scribe a new book with his hands, or bring the words forth on the page through force of his magic? Each life in the world had its fate, and it changed with every breath, thought, and choice they made. But all paths flowed from Christain, as his choices shifted the destinies of others. As he altered outcomes, he could see all courses laid out before him, a map of destiny as drawn out by his own hand. He was neutral in all things. Balance was the key to maintaining this world, a balance to all things under the gods. The weight of responsibility seemed to suit him, however, as he had retained his position for over a hundred thousand Eldukaran years, since the fateful last days of the old world, when he cast down the Dragon Gods in the name of freedom. The deep thoughts of the God of Time were touching the past, pulling the tapestry of time in reverse with his power, and retracing the near infinite paths of what was and what might have been, examining the rift. It is said that hindsight always provides perfect vision. For one such as he, who could look at the events of infinite futures as though they had already come to pass, foresight could be nearly as perfect. He contemplated how the events and paths walked by all thinking or non-sentient creatures since the birth of this world had all led up to this inevitable moment. Even blades of grass in the fields of Silus swayed in the precise rhythm of his plan. The tear was nearly mended. His calculations, both purely mental and completely flawless, turned history into an equation that held the answer to ensuring the future. Every man on Eldukaris has asked ‘why’ in his life, but only I know the answer. There was no pride in that thought, but more than a little regret. He knew that the infinity of possible variables were all taken into account, and could only lead to this decision, a solitary path to ensure one future, the only future left. The god walked with a heavy heart through his library, stroking the spines of the countless books. Most of the books bore his name, and most of them came from that old world, a world dead and forgotten. These books were the only things he brought with him before undoing a land of millions: a world of history, art, and culture as rich as any ever created. Or destroyed, he thought grimly. The thought was almost saddening, although the only things that he valued from the old world were these great tomes of research and magical power. The God of Time felt each spine with his finger, rounding the curves of one to the next in a rhythmic pattern as he walked along his bookcase. As he passed one, the pattern was broken. His finger tapped down on the shelf, between two books. There, a book was missing. He had known for some time that the book was gone. He knew who had taken it, and when, down to the fraction of a second. He knew why it had been stolen, what they would do with it, and where it was on his world at this instant. He had calculated the millions of variables, and the probability of infinite outcomes to just one. He knew the thievery perpetrated against him would be the catalyst that would hasten the plans born over a hundred millennia ago. Like the limitless factors that had brought him to this day, so too would this one serve his will. And on this night in Abolutia, he would set in motion what would bring it all full circle. “It is time,” he said as he headed toward the common room, ready to speak with the others. Act I “My name is not important for our purposes. Some know me as the Master of Time, or simply, the Keeper of Secrets. Grandiose words to describe what I am - a man. My true name is buried in the sands of time, hidden even from my own eyes. Names are powerful words here. In this world, there are beings of such power that the mere utterance of their true name could lay waste to cities, or cause the birth of an entirely new land. Indeed, names are powerful, so no man, woman, or child, alive or dead, shall know mine. Though, to ensure I am not given another, you may call me Christain. It is not my birth name, but for as long as I can remember, it has been who I am. I take quill in hand now, neither to alleviate guilt, nor to explain myself to anyone. I write the ‘truth’ as it can only be seen, through my eyes. The truth is, this book does not exist, nor do you. All that is on this world is meaningless. Before I am finished writing this – indeed, before I started writing this book, it had already ceased to be. The past is washed away, and the future has already happened. You have been forgotten. But it is those whom time forgets that can achieve the impossible. For you, tomorrow holds no consequence for evil, nor renown for good. What will be is as you will it to be, liberation through inevitability.” - The Journal of Christain, Page 1 |
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