"Father of Time," Vera whispered, kneeling beside Charlotte.
"Please… rewind her soul by ten days."
She raised one trembling hand above Charlotte's head.
A flash of light ignited in her palm, then poured downward into Charlotte's skull.
For ten long seconds, her head glowed softly.
"…It's done," Vera said at last.
Her face was pale. Her hands shook.
Had Grace's memories truly returned?
Alastair frowned, then looked to Belmuth.
"Very well," Belmuth said.
"Now it is my turn."
---
Whoom—
Charlotte's and Sybil's bodies were yanked forward by unseen force.
Belmuth extended his power, tearing their souls free.
Two spheres emerged.
One red.
One blue.
Alastair folded his arms, his gaze fixed on the ritual.
Belmuth was using techniques Alastair neither recognized nor fully understood.
But he could feel it—their souls were changing.
The presence of Grace grew stronger.
Charlotte's and Sybil's essence thinned… and vanished.
The scent of Grace's soul was overwhelming now.
So dense… so complete.
He really pulled this much of her back?
Alastair's eyes narrowed.
This was the power of a Soul Sovereign.
Without mastery and understanding this deep, such a feat would be impossible.
He memorized every movement. Every gesture. Every incantation.
Still—much of it eluded him.
---
Then Belmuth pressed his hands together.
The red and blue spheres began to merge.
Where they fused, emerald green bloomed.
…That color.
Grace's soul.
Alastair clenched his fists.
Sweat slicked his palms.
This was the most dangerous stage.
If he attempted it himself, his success rate would only be seventy percent.
Failure meant complete annihilation.
Even knowing Belmuth's odds were far higher, Alastair hated this—
placing Grace's very existence in another's hands, beyond his control.
Please… let this succeed.
He had trusted no one for a thousand years.
Not until now.
The emerald glow spread, overtaking everything.
The scent of pine—Grace's scent—thickened, filled the air, until only one radiant sphere remained.
Complete.
Alastair released a long breath.
His tense expression finally softened.
The knot in his brow eased.
Tears welled—just slightly—and he wiped them away at once.
Grace…
I'm so close to bringing you home.
If you return with your memories whole, I will surrender this body without regret.
"Preparation is complete," Belmuth said.
"Bring me the vessel."
Alastair nodded.
With utmost care, he retrieved Grace's body from his storage ring and placed it before Belmuth.
................................
The soul implantation ritual began.
Alastair paced, restless.
Please…
Grace, my beloved…
Will I truly see you again?
---
Each second stretched into years.
No—into centuries.
.........
A thousand years ago…
He and Grace had been traveling together when one of his enemies appeared.
Mortally wounded, the man cast a final curse before dying.
A rare ancient curse.
Perfectly calculated.
Alastair had been unprepared.
Grace leapt in front of him.
......
He still remembered the agony—the numbness, the burning terror—as the curse claimed her instead.
Seven days.
She had seven days to live.
He rushed to find help—
only for their airship to be swallowed by a dimensional rift, cast into Sybil's world.
A backward world.
No cursebreakers.
Grace died.
And Alastair was sealed there… for a thousand years.
The only thing that kept him alive was the promise he made to himself.
To bring her back.
Without her, life was hell.
For her, he would slaughter the world.
For her, he would burn everything.
.........….
At last—
The emerald soul settled into Grace's body.
The ritual was complete.
Now… she only had to wake.
Silence fell.
Everyone waited.
Alastair had never felt anxiety like this before.
Would she hate him?
Would she forgive him?
Would she recoil from what he had become?
His thoughts spiraled—but then—
---
Grace's lashes fluttered.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
His heart hammered.
He knelt beside her as silver eyes slowly opened for the first time in a thousand years.
Alastair reached out, hands shaking, and clasped her warm fingers.
Warm.
Not cold. Not stone.
Tears streamed silently down his face as he watched her breathe, watched her live.
"Alastair," she said softly.
"My beloved."
She smiled.
His heart lurched.
He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her pale silver hair—and wept.
He had imagined this moment countless times.
Never once had he imagined himself crying.
At last, he pulled back.
She wiped his tears away, laughing gently.
"I've never seen you cry like this," she said.
"What happened? How did I return? Who are these people?"
Alastair stiffened.
He told her everything.
Briefly. Honestly.
He had considered hiding Charlotte and Sybil.
In the end, he chose not to.
Grace was too perceptive.
Too knowing.
He could never lie to her.
She listened.
When he finished, she was silent for a long time.
Sweat traced his hairline.
Would she accept him?
At last, she spoke.
"Thank you," Grace said gently.
"You must have suffered so much. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you."
She squeezed his hand.
"But from now on… I'll stay with you. I promise."
Relief flooded him.
"I'm glad," he breathed.
"That you don't hate me."
"How could I?" she replied softly.
"You sacrificed everything for me."
He embraced her again.
Yet something gnawed at him.
Why…
Why didn't she mention Charlotte? Or Sybil?
It wasn't like her.
"You won't blame me?" he asked quietly.
"For Charlotte. For Sybil. For everything?"
Grace smiled.
"Why would I?" she said calmly.
"You did what was best for me. Their souls were mine to begin with."
Alastair froze.
His arms fell away.
He stared at her—eyes cold, distant.
"…You're not Grace," he said.
"Who are you?"