The air in the Obsidian Citadel hung thick with the scent of burnt myrrh and something older, something akin to starlight. Kaelen, the youngest of the Triumvirate – a name whispered with both reverence and dread – had begun to manifest his…connections. Not the simple geomancy practiced by the others, but a direct communion with the ‘Veil’, that shimmering membrane between realities. Initially, it was just echoes, fragmented memories of civilizations that had risen and fallen before the First Cycle. Then came the visions - colossal, chitinous beings crawling across landscapes of petrified amethyst, cities built from solidified song, and the chilling awareness of a hunger that predated even the Void.
The other Triumvirates, Lyra and Silas, reacted with predictable caution. Lyra, the Weaver of Time, attempted to isolate Kaelen, to dampen the flow of his connection. Silas, the Architect of Ruin, saw opportunity - a potential conduit for entirely new forms of destruction. Their arguments, typically conducted through intricate rune patterns projected directly into the minds of the others, escalated into a storm of fractured timelines and phantom geometries. The Citadel shuddered, and for a moment, the very fabric of the surrounding reality seemed to unravel.
The Chronarium, a device of unimaginable power – capable of shifting entire epochs – vanished. Not stolen, not destroyed, simply…gone. The evidence pointed directly to Kaelen. He was found amidst a cascade of displaced temporal fragments, a swirling vortex of seventeen different eras condensed into a single, pulsating chamber. He claimed he hadn't *taken* it, but that the Chronarium had…drawn him. That it recognized within him a resonance, a key to unlocking pathways beyond the comprehension of the other Triumvirates.
Lyra, consumed by a desperate need to regain control, initiated ‘The Severance’ – a ritual designed to completely sever Kaelen's connection to the Veil. Silas, predictably, saw this as a catastrophic failure, an opportunity to accelerate the inevitable collapse of reality. Kaelen, meanwhile, remained strangely detached, his eyes fixed on a point beyond the Citadel walls, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. He began to speak in a language that wasn't language, a cascade of symbols that warped the minds of those who attempted to decipher them. The Obsidian Citadel became a locus of temporal instability, a place where the past, present, and future bled into one another.
The Veil shifted again, this time not with echoes, but with *presence*. The Chronophages arrived – entities of pure temporal energy, drawn to the distortions created by the Triumvirate's actions. They didn't seek to destroy, but to *consume* – to devour timelines, to erase moments from existence. Their forms were fluid, shifting between countless iterations of themselves, each a reflection of a different potential reality. Kaelen, strangely, seemed to welcome them, engaging them in a complex, multi-dimensional dance that warped the very air around the Citadel.
Lyra and Silas were powerless to intervene. Their attempts to manipulate time only seemed to strengthen the Chronophages' hold. The Citadel became a battleground, not of physical combat, but of temporal paradoxes. The very foundations of reality were crumbling, and Kaelen, the youngest, the most unpredictable, was at the heart of it all. He was no longer just a conduit; he was a nexus, a focal point for the unraveling of everything. The final entry is incomplete, abruptly cut off, as if the scribe ceased writing as the world itself dissolved around him.