Chapter 1

The clock ticked three.

Varen sighed unconsciously, the feathered quill in his hand meticulously tracing letters onto paper. He finished a page and lifted it to eye level to double-check its contents, blowing on it simultaneously to help the ink dry faster. Once he was satisfied, he placed it gingerly on top of the already thick stack of papers on his desk. Then, fishing out a fresh piece, he resumed his work, occasionally pausing ever so briefly to ink his pen when it began to run dry.

A chair screeched as it was dragged against the floor, and he spun around in annoyance to glower at the culprit. It was one of his colleagues who'd gotten up to take a short break, and Varen's eye twitched as he spotted the stack of documents on the man's desk. The stack was a third the size of his own, and he scoffed internally. A quick glance around the room revealed that his other co-workers had been working just as hard.

Maybe I should take a break, I clearly don't need to put in as much effort as I am, he thought. He turned back to his own work and winced as he saw what he'd done. A long line of ink was blotted hideously across the piece of paper, the result of his sudden movement.

"Right, definitely need that break," he murmured as he crushed the paper up, tossing it into the small basket by the foot of his desk.

It was unusable, unacceptable work now. The cost of the wastage would be deducted from his paycheck, but there was no point mulling over his mistake, unsalvageable as it was.

His hands suddenly felt extremely sore as he began rearranging his desk, returning pen and paper to where they rightfully belonged on it. It was a soreness that he'd become accustomed to since his student days, an unfortunate side effect of gripping a pen all day. He wrung his hands out in a practiced manner, cracking his wrists and finger joints.

Translating old texts was hard work, and it certainly wasn't a career he'd expected to end up in when he chose to specialise in archaeology. Five years of tertiary study in the Academy had prepared him for bigger things, like journeys to dig sites in the ruins of fallen civilisations, not… this.

Still, sitting in relative silence in an old, musty room with thirty other people all day had its perks. The job was important all the same, and while it didn't pay much, it did at least pay decently for the amount of effort he was clearly expected to put in.

Taking care to make less of a commotion than his colleague, Varen rose from his seat, tucking the thick tome he'd been translating from under his left arm. As far as old texts went, it was a relatively new addition to the Royal Archives. An adventurer team had unearthed it eight years ago from the ruins of a castle in the Wraentis Empire, an ancient civilisation whose existence had only been discovered in the last decade.

The lands of the Wraentis Empire were the furthest lands that had been mapped so far, and it was still unclear how much further the Empire had stretched. What was more intriguing though, was the fact that it survived as long as it had, being that deep in the Unknown Territories, where the threat of Vaettir – the all inclusive term for the creatures of the unexplored – was ever present.

Just over five centuries was the current estimation of the Empire's lifespan, after the Cataclysm and before the founding of the current Three Great Kingdoms. That much had been gleaned through a multitude of texts and collected relics. Though, it was unclear how much time had passed between the end of the Empire and the beginnings of the current Kingdoms. A long time, Varen guessed, considering that most signs of that civilisation had decayed into nothingness.

Ideas cycled through Varen's mind as he strolled through the empty hallways to the cafeteria. Perhaps the people of Wraentis had the technology to effectively defend themselves from the Vaettir? Well, if they did, then it was another secret yet to be uncovered. Still, it was an exciting thought. Who knew how much more there was to discover?

Soon, the heavy wooden doors of the cafeteria came into view, and Varen shrugged his speculations away. He was here to relax and to take a much needed breather, as well as partake in a dose of much needed caffeine. He grabbed the door's embellished gold handles and pushed, leaning his weight against the thick wood and grunting slightly from the effort.

"Whoever designed this is an idiot," he mumbled in displeasure as the door creaked open a tad, just enough for him to slip in before it slowly swung shut.

He considered for the hundredth time bringing the matter up in a formal complaint, but decided against it again, citing the usual reasons in his head. It was a trivial matter, and even if anyone took it seriously, the amount of red tape involved simply meant it wouldn't be worth the time.

That was without mentioning that the Archives were technically a wing of the Royal Palace, which the royal family had generously donated in the pursuit of knowledge. Whoever had been important enough to approve the design was far too important for a lowly scholar like him to offend.

Varen's shoulders slumped as he strode across the floor to the food and drinks counter, resigned to his fate of struggling with the heavy cafeteria doors every day in the foreseeable future.

"You okay, lad?" the man behind the counter asked as he approached. "Saw you struggling with the door again."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just part of my daily struggle, nothing out of the ordinary," Varen replied, putting on a weary smile.

The man chuckled, shaking his head as he placed an empty tray upon the counter. "So, the usual?"

"Mhm, coffee and a sandwich please."

"You need to eat more, kid," the man said as he began preparing Varen's order. "You're thin like a stick for your height. Most wouldn't have a problem with the door, you know."

Ah, right, that's another reason. Anyone he complained about the door to would have given him the once-over and laughed in his face. Yes, he had a small appetite and was prone to skipping meals when he was engrossed with something, but surely he wasn't that physically weak?

"Tell you what, it's a little late, but let me whip up a few leftovers from lunchtime for you, free of charge. Sound good?"

"Sure, why not?" nodded Varen. He wasn't that hungry, but he was never one to refuse an offer of free food.

"Just this once, don't get used to it," the man smirked, placing a cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a plate of leftovers onto the tray. "Enjoy."

"Thanks, I will."

Varen grabbed the tray with both hands, ensuring that the book was still secure under his arm before making his way to one of the many empty tables. He spotted his colleague from before out of the corner of his eye, sitting with a few others and talking quite animatedly.

Wracking his brain, Varen tried to recall the man's name – what was it again? Kelvin? Kevin? Something similar to that, at least. He had a head of scruffy blond hair that stood him apart from the others. The rest of the faces were at least a little bit familiar, but their names didn't come to mind either.

He gave their group a wide berth, moving instead to another table further down the floor. He doubted they knew his name either, seeing as how he'd basically never spoken to them after their initial introductions. Not that it mattered, since their job didn't exactly demand a team effort. He was perfectly fine on his own.

Setting his tray down on the table's wooden surface, Varen sat and took a sip of warm coffee from the mug, allowing himself a small sigh of satisfaction as the bitter aftertaste of the drink lingered on his tongue. He hadn't liked it in the past, but it had grown on him after many sleepless nights as a student. The book was placed down next to him on the bench as he unwrapped his sandwich and began to nibble on it.

His gaze travelled around the cafeteria as he ate slowly, nothing really catching his attention in particular. He shook his legs restlessly and tried to focus on the food before him instead. The sandwich tasted of cold ham and eggs as per usual, while the mish-mash of meat and vegetables on the plate was… colourful, to say the least.

After a few more bites of his sandwich as he stared at the plate of leftovers, Varen gave in and allowed his gaze to travel to the book by his side, his attempt at taking a break from work unsuccessful. Setting the tome onto the table, he reread its title before thumbing it open to the page where he had left off.

The Fate of the World, it read. Chapter Twelve: The Cataclysm.

From its title, and from the contents that he'd translated of the previous eleven chapters, Varen was certain that the publication of old wasn't meant to be one that documented historical facts. Instead, it seemed to be a text of prophecy, and a pretty controversial one at that. Probably something from a cult, if he hazarded a guess.

Still, that was the nature of the work of the Archivists'. Every bit of knowledge, ranging from children's tales to official documents was important, and could allow researchers to understand the cultures of fallen civilisations to the smallest detail.

At least this is interesting, if a little fanatical, Varen thought as he continued reading.

The Cataclysm is thought of as an act of nature, as nothing more than a natural disaster on the widest scale imaginable. We see the aftermath of it everywhere we look – from mountains that reach the sky to valleys with no end, all formed when the earth was rent and split in twain.

Varen placed his half-eaten sandwich down to take a sip of his coffee. He used his left hand to pace himself, dragging a finger under the words. Speed reading wouldn't do, not when he had to be sure not to miss out any details.

But, we of the faith know that the Cataclysm was much more than a natural catastrophe. It was divine punishment wrought upon the entire world, to cleanse the land of of sin. To cleanse the land of us. Nature can do no sin, but eventually nature too will suffer when humanity's sins become too much to bear. Our church seeks to bring the people onto the path of repentance, but our beliefs ring on deaf ears, and the gods grow closer to wroth everyday. There can be no doubt that the world will be cleansed again, as it has many times before.

Varen quirked an eyebrow at the sentence. There certainly was a theory that the Cataclysm wasn't a one-time disaster, and that it was simply the latest in a string of other similarly destructive phenomena. Substantial evidence had yet to be discovered, however, and it was well understood that a fanatical text like this definitely couldn't be considered as fact.

With the end inevitable once more, we have begun preparations to abandon the unbelievers. To abandon our fellow man. Our plans will take time, but time is on our side for now. The Empire will no doubt fall long before the end; distrust is already brewing in the capital, but things should be stable until we are ready to head south.

South? Further into the Unknown? Varen wondered what their final destination was, and he made a mental note to search it up. He took another sip of coffee.

We have centuries to be ready, and we will survive. We will survive the end, and we will spread the faith when all has been rebuilt. Hopefully the people, the world, will believe our teachings then.

He turned the page, and promptly choked on his coffee, nearly dropping the mug. He spluttered, and drops of coffee flew from his mouth, though thankfully none landed on the open book.

"Fuck," he swore under his breath. A scowl decorated his face as he just about slammed the cup down onto the tray, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robe.

Kevin – or whatever his name was – had risen from his seat and was making his way over. He was accompanied by a blonde-haired girl, her similarly coloured hair bound up in a ponytail. Both blondes shared a look of concern on their faces, but that was hardly the most troubling bit.

Gazing back down at the book, Varen rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

100 days : 8 hours : 45 minutes : 52 seconds, was all that was displayed on the entire page. And the seconds were counting down.

xxxxx

"You're sure you're fine?"

"Yes! Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Varen snapped exasperatedly, walking as briskly as he could through the hallway. He rounded a corner, followed closely by his two colleagues who were keeping up with him effortlessly. "And I don't recall inviting the both of you to accompany me."

"You just look really pale, Varen. We're just tagging along in case you collapse or something," the petite blonde girl said, giving her male counterpart a shrug, as if to say 'what's his problem?'. "What're you in such a rush for anyway?"

"To see the Head Majstor about a grave matter," replied Varen tersely, shifting his gaze to look at the girl for a split-second, mildly surprised that she knew his name. The surprise faded swiftly as he concentrated on navigating the hallways, lamenting the fact that his destination was still over a minute's walk away.

A minute… Varen's heart hammered in his chest as he counted the seconds in his head, knowing that the numbers were ticking down in the book as well. His grip tightened around the book till his knuckles were white, and he quickened his pace as he turned right at a corridor junction. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed him by his left arm, and his heart leapt into his throat at the contact.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Haven't I made it clear that this is important?!" he shouted in anger, spinning around to glare daggers at the slightly taller blond male. He could feel the seconds counting down, and he didn't have time to tolerate their behaviour.

"Woah, calm down Varen, I'm not trying to stop you," his colleague said, releasing his grip on Varen's arm and raising both hands to show he meant no harm. The man then tilted his head in the opposite direction of the corridor, "Head Majstor's office is that way."

Varen blinked in realisation, and the anger he felt toward the blond instantly turned against himself. Cursing himself for his lack of directional sense, he mumbled a brief apology for his outburst, "Right, sorry…"

"Anything else?"

"… Thanks."

"Apology accepted, and you're welcome," the blond nodded, his expression neutral. "Come on, Varen. Whatever the matter is, it's important, right? Let's go."

He then shifted, gesturing for Varen to lead the way. Varen kept his head down, regaining his pace in the right direction as his two co-workers followed. He was painfully aware that they were now keeping their distance.

Way to go, champ, Varen chided himself. Yes, he preferred to be alone at most times, but he wasn't self-destructive about it. Ruining relationships and isolating himself from his peers by making them dislike him just wasn't his style.

In a way though, it was a blessing in disguise. The shame he felt now from his unnecessary outburst was enough to stop his mind from running at a million miles an hour. He was still hurried, but less panicked.

"Just another right and we'll be there," his male colleague called out, and Varen tilted his head to face his workmate, giving a slight nod to acknowledge his words. Turning the corner, he was greeted by the sight of a royal guardsman standing guard by the office's entrance.

"Halt," the guardsman said sternly as their party of three approached with Varen in the lead. "Your business?"

"I need to speak with the Head Majstor, please," said Varen. "It's important."

"That's what everyone says, kid. You have an appointment?"

"No, but this really is a matter of the utmost importance. It's a matter of life and death!"

The guard studied Varen for moment, then said stoically, "Fine, but it's not wholly my decision to make. Give me your names, I'll ask if the Head Majstor is free for an audience."

"Varen Ashtar."

"And your companions?"

Right, their names… Varen paused, staring blankly at the guard. He would have been unashamed to simply ask them for their names under normal circumstances, but he didn't want to risk offending them further, especially after he had acted in such an unjustly manner. Thankfully, his male colleague stepped forward before he could further embarrass himself.

"Kleven and Caelie Trevek."

Huh, so they were siblings. They did have similar enough features, now that Varen thought of it. Dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, button noses and sun-kissed skin that was very much unlike his own pale skin tone, he noted.

"Understood. Wait here," instructed the guard once he'd received their names, entering the office to pass the message.

"Man, you genuinely didn't know our names, huh?" Caelie piped up as soon as the door was shut, leaving the three of them in the hallway. "I was really hoping you did."

She sounded disappointed and mildly annoyed, and Varen kept his eyes on the ground as he sheepishly mumbled another apology.

"Don't mind her, she's just sore about a lost bet," Kleven said, waving off his apology.

"A lost bet?" asked Varen quizzically, raising his gaze from the floor to meet theirs, the change in topic piquing his interest.

Kleven chuckled, "My younger sister here thought it was a good idea to take a bet on whether or not you knew our names, and I won, obviously."

"Hey!" Caelie retorted, scrunching her nose up unhappily. "I'm only younger by two minutes! It hardly counts!"

"I'd say your brother has a valid claim," Varen offered, letting out a nervous laugh as she glared at him accusingly for taking Kleven's side. "I never would have pegged the two of you as twins though."

"Non-identical, I like to think," Kleven grinned, Caelie folding her arms with a small 'hmph' by his side. "Only things we have in common are our looks and our penchant for mischief, as our father always used to say."

Varen gave a small smile at their antics, which quickly faded. Bowing his head, he said sincerely, "Again, I really am sorry for losing my temper at you just now, Kleven. My day's been filled with surprise after surprise, and it's getting a little overwhelming. To be honest, I didn't even think that anyone knew who I was, let alone knew my name."

"Of course we know who you are! We shared quite a few classes with you back in the Academy, and you've hardly changed one bit," pouted Caelie. "Why else would I be so disappointed? Losing a bet isn't enough to get me down, you know."

"Ah…"

"You owe us a favour for forgetting us, yeah?"

"Fair enough," Varen conceded, and Caelie gave a small smile, satisfied.

"So what did you read in that tome that's got you so riled up? I don't think I've ever seen you show as much emotion as you have today," Kleven asked, giving the book in Varen's arm a curious look.

Before Varen could reply, however, the office door opened, and the guardsman peered out. "The Head Majstor's agreed to spare you some of his time. Come, follow me."

xxxxx

The guard ushered them into the musty office, through lines of bookshelves that extended from the floor to the ceiling. It seemed more of a library instead of a workspace, crammed to the brim with knowledge as it was. Following their escort, they were led to the centre of the room, where a man with a full head of greying hair was hunched over at the desk, writing at a furious pace.

"Head Majstor, your guests," the guard announced, gesturing for the three of them to wait, before retreating from the room to return to his post.

For someone who was in charge of the Archives, as well as the kingdom's unit of elite magicians, Head Majstor Zharin looked youthful for his age. He was a powerful individual, considered by many to wield nearly as much influence as the King, and as far as Varen could tell, he was stuck behind his desk doing paperwork. Several other pens were also hovering by Zharin's side, animated by magic to assist in the mundane task.

"Head Majstor—" Varen began, only to be interrupted by the older man holding up an imposing palm that signalled pause.

Zharin's gaze hadn't yet left the table, his attention still fixed on the task before him. Another minute passed before he finally stopped writing, placing his writing tool down and raising his head to study his three guests with calculating eyes.

"Junior Archivist Ashtar, I believe this isn't the first time we've spoken," the Head Majstor finally spoke, only giving the Trevek twins a passing glance as he addressed Varen. "When was it? Six years ago?"

"Y-yes sir, when I was still a student. We spoke briefly when you informed me of my step-brother's disappearance," replied Varen, stammering slightly, his nerves fraying under the man's commanding presence.

"Ah yes, your step-brother, one of the best men in my unit. Right after his public debut as well, what a shame. How have you and the family been coping?"

"I wouldn't know about the family, sir. I haven't spoken a word to them since then, and they avoid me like the plague," Varen stiffened up for a second before shrugging as nonchalantly as he could. "It hasn't been much of a loss. I was never particularly close to any of them in the first place, my step-brother included."

"I see," Zharin nodded, saying no more on the matter. "I understand you needed to speak with me urgently. Surely you wouldn't drop by during working hours to make a personal call, would you?"

"Uh, no sir, I wouldn't," Varen agreed, somewhat puzzled. He couldn't tell if the Head Majstor had just made a joke, especially not from the man's still deadpan expression. Shoving the thought aside, he decided to err on the side of caution and continue with the more important matter at hand.

Opening the Wraentisian tome to the page with the countdown, Varen handed it over to Zharin. He then began to recount what he'd read in the book's previous few pages. The Head Majstor studied its contents for himself as Varen spoke, his face still betraying no emotion, and Varen couldn't help but wonder how long it'd taken the man to develop such a visage.

"What do you two think of this?" Zharin asked the twins as Varen finished.

"It seems absurd," said Kleven as he processed the story. "Much like many other religious and prophetic texts. I'd be inclined to simply dismiss it as the ramblings of a cultist, if not for the magic countdown."

"The countdown does give it a more ominous feeling," Caelie hummed in agreement. "It's not that uncommon to find magic inscriptions in the old texts we work with, though I probably would have panicked like Varen if I'd been the one to discover that. A hundred days is far too close for comfort, especially since we're talking about an end of the world prophecy."

Varen nodded along with her answer, glad that she agreed with his line of thought.

Zharin cleared his throat. "Valid points. I suppose it would be prudent of me to inform you, Mr Ashtar, that many have brought up issues on similar subject matters over the years, since our discovery of the Wraentis Empire. Written works and relics that seemed to hint of an impending doom in the future."

"Has anything been done to check the validity of the claims? If that's alright of me to ask, sir," asked Varen, frowning slightly. Of course there would have been other uncovered texts that spoke of the same thing, and he didn't like where the Head Majstor was going with it.

"Indeed. Your step-brother was on an exploratory mission to Castle Feldraks, to see if he could find further clues. It was unfortunate that their position was overrun by Vaettir, and it took us months to reclaim what progress we'd lost in the area," Zharin explained. "That isn't the problem we face now, however."

The Head Majstor continued with a small sigh, the first real emotion that they'd seen him exhibit, "Since we've not managed to uncover substantial evidence, the Council elected to cease investigations earlier this year, with our King's approval."

"I suppose showing the Council the magic countdown in the book won't change anything then?" guessed Varen, his head hung in disappointment.

"That is correct," Zharin concurred. "As Ms Trevek mentioned, magical inscriptions are not all that uncommon. Furthermore, there are other factors to consider. The book could have been tampered with, for example. Perhaps someone added the inscription when no one was looking, as a prank of sorts. There is simply no way to date it, and as such we are unable to prove that it is valid. Even I cannot ascertain if the countdown was added by its author in the first place. Magic has its limits, and that is one of them."

A pregnant pause filled the room. Varen knew that the older man was speaking the truth. There were just too many unknown factors to take into consideration. It was strange how much he minded it, but for some reason he knew that the prophecy and the countdown were important. Yet, if the Council wouldn't believe it, what could he do? They were a collection of the most powerful and influential people in the Ivolas Kingdom, whereas he was just a simple scholar who had worked hard at his studies.

"However," Zharin said, breaking the silence and capturing Varen's attention again. "I believe this warrants a proper investigation. Out of all the texts that told of an 'end', not one of them provided a specific timeframe for it, much less a deadline. If we are to believe this inscription, then we only have a little over three months before a catastrophe will take place."

"Since this will be an unofficial investigation," the Head Majstor continued, "I am unable to assign my men to it, or see to it myself for that matter. That will raise unwanted questions by people I wish to avoid, and will certainly delay the proceedings. Do you get my drift, Junior Archivist Ashtar?"

Varen gulped, understanding immediately what the older man was implying. He was tempted to refuse, to continue being safe and secure at his work desk doing mundane translations. Life had beaten the ambition out of him in recent years, but deep down he knew that he wanted more. He was immediately reminded of how his mum had regaled him with vivid tales of adventure when he was a child. He'd told her that he would see them all for himself one day.

Zharin's offer was a golden opportunity, and Varen knew it would be his biggest regret it if he said no. And ultimately, if the world was ending, what did he have to lose? With a decision made and his mind steeled, Varen gave a determined nod.

"Very well. You will be headed to Feldraks. It should be relatively safe for you to start your investigations there, for the research camp is heavily garrisoned. With a much larger force than before, I assure you. We have learnt from our mistakes. I will make the arrangements and summon you tomorrow. That's all for now," Zharin said, sending The Fate of the World flying back into Varen's arms with simple chant and a flick of his wrist. "The three of you may consider yourselves done with your work for the day. Return and ensure your bags are packed."

"Even us?" Caelie asked, surprised.

"Yes, that includes you and your brother, Ms Trevek," reiterated the Head Majstor, a hint of a smile upon his lips, his most expressive gesture yet. "After all, you're friends, are you not?"