“Man, you really can just put it away, can’t you?”

  Dean froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth. He was sitting at a table in a cottage, a bowl full of stew propped in his lap. Light streamed in through the window, casting the room in soft shadows.

  “It’s good,” he said, setting down his spoon. Was he meant to be here? For the life of him, he couldn’t seem to remember what he had been doing before this moment.

  Strange, he thought. Why do I feel so… off?

  Charlotte watched him with guarded eyes. When she smiled, there was a sadness in it.

  “I would certainly hope so. I may have been a mediocre adventurer, but my cooking skills were legendary.”

  Dean slowly set his bowl on the nearby table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Charlotte sat before him but.. it was all wrong. She was still wearing the armor from the battle, and her wounds wept crimson. In a flash, the memories returned to him.

  “You’re not real are you?” he asked, even as the words twisted the knife in his heart. Charlotte’s gaze softened.

  “I’m real to you. At least in your mind, I am.” She tilted her head, long hair sliding over her shoulders. She looked very much the way she had when they first met. Strange, exotic, and filled with gentle amusement. If it weren’t for the armor, for the wounds on her frame, he might have been able to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  “I’m sorry,” he croaked, his voice heavy. Charlotte smiled, and this time the expression seemed genuine.

  “For what, Dean? None of us could have expected the outcome of that battle. His betrayal.. it wasn’t supposed to happen. There were so many factors, so many variables that couldn’t be controlled, and for once I thought I really understood things.”

  She shook her head.

  “I was wrong. And now we’ve all paid the price.”

  There was pain in her voice… a skin-deep guilt that Dean couldn’t quite understand.

  “What do you mean it wasn’t supposed to happen?”

  “I mean that things were different this time. I thought I’d made a difference or at least helped change the outcome. But in the end, the result was the same.”

  “But-“

  “Listen,” she interrupted him. “I don’t have much time. There is something I need to tell you – something that can’t wait.”

  The light from the window outside had shifted. It was no longer soft and bright. Now it was darker, more ominous, as if the light itself was being leeched from the air. Charlotte was cast in shadow, but her eyes were still intent as she leaned towards him. Dean found himself frozen, his gaze locked with hers.

  “Whatever you do, don’t trust him fully,” she said. “He’ll say things, promise things. But it’s all just a part of a much larger game. Become a player, not a pawn.”

  Goosebumps erupted along his arms at her words. He glanced out the window, seeing no remnants of light anymore. It was pitch dark – an absence of light. And now everything was cast in shadow.

  “Who?” he asked, turning back to her. But the chair she had occupied was now empty. Dean stood, pushing back from the table as he stared around the darkened room that now faded away. Instead, he was standing on a beach made entirely of black sand. The sand itself glittered in the semi-darkness, undulating like waves at sea.

  “Charlotte?” he asked, but he knew there would be no response. The Charlotte he knew had already passed on, and what remained was merely a piece of his friend that he now held in his heart. That, however, didn’t answer the question of where he was.

  He was wearing the same armor he’d had on when he died but somehow his wounds were gone. Dean stood on a platform of stone amidst a sea of drifting black sand. There was moonlight coming from overhead, but when he looked, he couldn’t make out the source of it. The sand itself seemed endless, and as he stared at the undulating waves, he could have sworn he saw something. It wasn’t much, a flicker of motion, but it had drawn his attention.

  Just when he was beginning to think he’d imagined it, a giant fin the side of a horse and wagon rose from the sand now thirty feet away. It cut towards him, disappearing beneath the surface moments later.

  “What the-“ he breathed, reaching for his sword. But his hand met only empty air. Looking down, Dean realized that his scabbard was empty. Too late, he remembered that he had dropped his sword in the struggle with the Black Devil. Dean cast around, looking for something, anything he could use as a weapon.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” called a voice over empty air. “Those creatures aren’t exactly of this world, and they are dangerous, even to lost souls like you.”

  Dean spun around, heart leaping into his throat. He was no longer alone on the stone platform. Sitting on a pile of cushions at a low table that almost certainly hadn’t been there before was a young boy.

  To Dean, he looked no older than seven or eight years old. His white hair was combed neatly back, and his clothes, which seemed strangely out of era, were neat and kept. On the table before him was what appeared to be a scene from high above. There were trees, buildings, and even grass. Dean stepped away from the edge of the platform, drawn towards the captivating scene. The smoke and the bodies upon that plain looked hauntingly familiar.

  “What is this?” he whispered, fists tightening as he stared down at the tiny scene of the battlefield before him. “Who…. What are you?”

  The boy looked up then, and when he did, Dean nearly took a step back. His eyes were a blue so dark it was almost black. An endless void, devoid of any whites or pupils. It was entirely unnatural, and an old instinct in Dean warned him that something about this creature was dangerous.

  In contrast, the boy seemed entirely at his ease.

  “That,” he said, propping his chin on a tiny boyish fist. “Is a complicated question to answer. To some, I am a savior – an arbiter of souls lost to the void. To others, I am a monster, a creature whose mere existence is… unpalatable. I suppose then, who and what I am is dependent on who you ask.”

  He smiled at Dean, and his small teeth were unnaturally white.

  “That is to say, I’m a Magus, of course.”

  “Magus?” Dean’s brows drew together as he tried to recall stories from his past.

  “You mean like a wizard?”

  The boy snorted.

  “Something like that, I suppose. Though Wizards are generally mortal creatures. Tell me, what is it like to die? That’s something I’ve never experienced before, and I always do wonder.”

  Dean swallowed hard as the memories surged within him. There was the pain, the thundering of his pulse in his ears. The way his world seemed to shrink and go dim as the Spear Saint stared down at him.

  I don’t even know your name He’d said. And he was right. Dean had been just another soldier – an insignificant statistic on the battlefield, even in the end.

  “Cold.” He said, clenching his jaw. He jerked his gaze from the carnage of the scene below and focused on the Magus before him. “So that’s it. I’m dead?”

  If the boy was disappointed in his answer, he didn’t show it. Instead, he merely shrugged.

  “That depends on how you define death. If you are referring to your mortal body, then yes, you are dead. But your soul, your consciousness, and all subsequent matter connected to it are still very much alive. You were adrift in the Sea of Souls, but I chose to pull you out.”

  A memory nagged at Dean. He plunged his hand into his pocket, his fingers closing around the coin that his friend had given him moments before her death. He withdrew it, turning it over in his palm to see its face. The coin was worn, but the likeness was unmistakable. This was who Charlotte had warned him about.

  In that moment, Dean made his decision. He lowered himself onto the cushion opposite the Magus, wrapping his arms around his knees.

  “Why?” he asked shortly. It was a single-word question, but the boy seemed to know what he meant.

  “Because I believe there is a chance we can be useful to each other, Dean Thompson. That is, I see potential in you – one you may not have even seen in yourself.”

  Dean’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t know the first thing about Magus, but growing up on the wrong side of town had taught me a few lessons in street psychology. He knew that anyone offering something for nothing in return was often peddling a crock of shit.

  “And what’s the catch? How do I know you're not a demon intending to trick me into signing away my soul?”

  The Magus laughed, the sound loud and genuine.

  “A demon? How interesting. And have you ever met a demon?”

  Dean thought of the Black Devil.

  “Only one.”

  “Then you would know that demons are cursed. They cannot shake their earthly bonds because they have no soul. They are bound to remain either in hell itself or on the surface of any world they inhabit. A demon could not reside here…at least not for very long.”

  Dean glanced around at the undulating black sand, the Sea of Souls, he now knew, and nodded slowly.

  “If you’re not a demon, then tell me your name. In the Infernal Court, names have power, and demons can’t give them away without a price.”

  The boy sighed, the sound reminding Dean of a much older man. The seven-year-old who was almost certainly not seven looked amused. He sighed, waving a hand.

  “Very well. My name as it was given to me long ago is Sebastian. You may call me Bast. And if you don’t mind, please stop speaking about demons. Talking about Hell has the unfortunate effect of drawing unwanted attention from it. And while we are technically safe here for aforementioned reasons, I’d rather not push our luck.”

  No sooner had he finished speaking than Dean saw the giant fin rise from the sand again, this time much closer. The creature, whatever it was, passed so near that Dean felt the rumble of its passage through the cushion he now sat on. He gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, but Bast seemed unconcerned.

  “Where were we?” he mused, scratching at his childlike chin as he gazed down at the scene before him. Tiny people moved across the battlefield, and Dean’s stomach clenched as he saw the horror of that battle laid out before him.

  “You were going to tell me why you brought me here.” He said, pulling his eyes away.

  “Ah, right. You must forgive me, time moves more linearly for you than it does for me. Speaking of time, ours here is short. Your soul's absence from the Sea won’t go unnoticed for long, so I’ll cut to the chase.”

  The Magus looked up suddenly, and again Dean found himself sucked into those voidlike eyes as the creature leaned towards him. “I want,” said the boy, his eyes narrowing in intensity. “You to make a deal with me, Dean Thompson. A deal that could give you a second chance at life.”

  Dean’s brain ground to a halt as the words hit him. For a moment he could only sit there, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish. Then the full implication struck him.

  “You mean going back?” He swallowed hard. “But humanity lost the war. It won’t be long before the three kingdoms fall, and Hell consumes the world. The seers predicted it would be a time of fire and brimstone and that nothing…” his voice caught as he blinked back the memories. “That nothing would survive. Even if I could go back, what would be the point? I can’t stop what’s happening. And the only ones that could, The Saints, are all dead. He killed them.”

  Bast steepled his fingers, his expression thoughtful. His midnight eyes skipped across the scene of the battlefield, and Dean saw the fires of war reflected in them.

  “Yes,” he mused. “Those pretenders. Well, you are correct, I’m afraid. In this timeline, mankind has lost the war, and the fate of the world hangs by a thread. The Saints might have tipped the balance if their own didn’t betray them. But betrayal doesn’t happen overnight. For years, this battle has raged, and the Saints have done little to stop it. Perhaps it was overconfidence, certainty of their power, and their place in the world. After all, Adventurers are born to power, aren’t they? Nobility, wealth, and careful breeding have produced some of your world's finest warriors.” Bast’s smile was snake-like. “And yet… in the end they all fell.”

  Dean could see little knots of demons wading through the scene of the battlefield, killing any who remained alive. In the distance, the buildings and houses of nearby towns began to burn. It all felt so hopeless.

  “Then what’s the point of any it?” Dean growled. “I can’t change the outcome. Even if I did go back, I couldn’t stop this.”

  He clenched the coin in his hand so hard he felt the edges cut into his skin. Charlotte had believed in him. She’d claimed that it had to be him, that he might be able to change things. But Dean had no idea how.

  “No, you couldn’t,” said Bast, making Dean scowl. “At least not if you went back to the present as you are now. But that isn’t what I’m proposing.”

  Dean’s heart froze in his chest. His eyes snapped up from the scene of the battlefield, locking with the Magus before him. The power in them pulled at him, but this time Dean resisted, fixing the Magus with a glare.

  “You mean to tell me,” he said, his voice low and hard. “That there is a chance… a way for me to go back in time? Before the war? Before everything? How is that possible?”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Bast’s midnight eyes seemed to gleam.

  “There might be a way,” said the Magus, slyly. “But nothing is ever really free, is it? A man like you should know that.”

  Dean kept his mouth shut, hardly daring to breathe. It was all starting to make sense now. Charlotte’s words echoed in his head.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I tried to change things, but in the end I failed.

  If she had died before… been offered a deal…

  But Dean couldn’t shake the words her ghost had left with him only moments before.

  Don’t trust him completely, she had warned him. Become a player, not a pawn.

  “And what is it that you want in return?”

  Bast nodded slowly, as if satisfied with the question.

  “What I ask is for a formal binding contract. You get what you want – a chance to go back to a time before the war and alter the course of human history. All of the painful memories you hold, all of the suffering.. it can all be erased if you manage to succeed. Besides, if you’re as resourceful as you seem, then you might actually stand a chance at making something of yourself. After all, a man with foreknowledge of events that have yet to occur is valuable.”

  He smiled then, and Dean noticed that that smile never quite reached his otherworldly eyes.

  “And in return, what I want is a promise. If you succeed, then I will exact no price. You may continue to live the life you led before, and upon your natural death, your soul will progress normally according to how you lived.”

  He waved a hand, gesturing towards the endless waves of dark sand.

  “But?” Dean asked, his glare not wavering.

  Bast’s eyes glittered.

  “But,” he said. “Should you fail in our objective to change the future and save humanity or die before your time then…I am owed something of yours. Not a steep price, mind you, but a fragment. A fragment that is, of your soul.”

  There it was, the other shoe that he had known would drop. In all the stories, all the fables of old, the Devil always offered a sweet deal. But in return for what was promised, be it riches, love, or kingdoms, the price was always the same. The soul… the very essence of one's true being.

  “That’s what you did to her,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady for the anger he now felt churning in his stomach. He remembered now, recalled the way Charlotte had always lived her life with fullness. She took risks, enjoyed the finer things, and in then end… in the end she’d known what would happen when she failed.

  Dean set the coin on the table between them, and Bast’s eyes drifted down to it.

  “Ah,” he said slowly. “Yes, the owner of that coin did strike a deal with me. But you should know every deal is unique. You see, that is the nature of magic cast on the power of souls. The energy must come from somewhere, and when it does, it’s fleeting. You might have guessed it, but I deal in chronomancy, the power of time and space itself. It’s a fickle magic, and despite the skill of the caster, it is often unpredictable. It extracts its own price from the user and for that… well.. one must be compensated. I am sure you understand… after all, you were a soldier for hire. Everything, even blood, has a price.”

  Dean clenched his jaw, staring down at the table. There was a part of him that wanted so badly to take the deal. A chance to go back and right past wrongs… to change the course of history if he could.. it was a tempting prospect. It wasn’t only the knowledge he’d have of future events, but it had to do with who he’d become – or more importantly, who he’d avoided becoming.

  Back then, I dropped out of the training program. I didn’t think I had the talent or skill to become an Adventurer, and in the end, I didn’t even bother signing up for the exams. But now… with everything I know, despite my disadvantages. Despite it all, I might have a chance.

  He looked up at Bast and saw himself reflected in the Magus’s void like eyes. He could see his own eagerness, and the creature's predatory smile confirmed his suspicions.

  The Magus had likely always gotten what he wanted. He pulled desperate souls from the brink of death and offered them what they wanted most. But in the end, he was the only one who profited for certain. So Dean swallowed his pride and let go of the dream before it could take hold.

  “No,” he said simply. A few beats passed before Bast seemed to register his words.

  “No?” he asked, his voice incredulous.

  “You realize what it is I’m offering you. A second chance at life… the opportunity to save your entire race from enslavement or annihilation. And you’re willing to walk away?”

  Dean lifted his chin, holding the Magus’s gaze.

  “That’s right. The deal is favors you more than it does me. I’m one man, and there is no guarantee that someone with no power or real standing can alter the events of history at all. So unless you’re offering to make me a noble or a demi god for that matter, then my new life would be a gamble. Regardless, of whether or not I succeed or if mankind falls you and you alone will profit. You don’t even really care about the outcome do you? After all, what difference would it make to someone like you?”

  Bast’s smile had faded, his eyebrows drawing together.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he said. His voice had lost it’s whimsical child-like nature and instead had taken on a sharper tone. Dean resisted the urge to shiver. He wouldn’t be intimidated now.

  “No I don’t think I am. I have no interest in bargaining my soul. I won’t be a pawn in your game Bast, or whatever your real name is. So go ahead and threaten me or tear my soul to shreds or whatever it is you want to do. After all, I’m already Dead.”

  Dean shoved himself to his feet and, before the Magus could reply, he turned his back on him. Wind whipped the air, tearing at his clothes and hair. Beyond the stone platform, the sand began to churn. Dean could see something in its depths, a giant eye here, a scale there, but he tried not to focus on it so he wouldn’t lose his nerve. Clenching his fists, he walked towards the end of the platform, praying he’d read the situation correctly. The truth was that he didn’t want to die, but if his hunch was correct…

  “Stop.” Called the Magus behind him. Dean almost breathed a sigh of relief. He stopped several feet from the edge of the stone platform and felt the wind die down.

  Bast sat with his palms flat on the table, his void-like eyes glaring at Dean. The board on the table that had reflected the battlefield scene was now completely dark. For a moment, it seemed like the Magus was wrestling with something internally. Then, finally, he let out a sigh.

  “You asked if I care about the outcome,” he said, pressing his lips together. “It might surprise you, but the answer is yes. Oh, sure, I don’t much care about mankind as a whole. Humans, dwarves, elves, the races have never concerned someone like me. But there are… other incentives for my interest. You see, your friend was telling the truth when she told you that what happened on that battlefield should have been impossible. In my time observing your world, I’ve seen many historical outcomes. But this one… it should not be.”

  Dean felt that creeping feeling again, the same sense of Dread he had felt when the rumor had spread through the battlefield. The Spear Saint had been humanity's favorite hero. There were songs, statues, and even children's toys made in his honor. And yet the Duke’s second son had chosen to betray humanity and doom them all.

  “You're saying that the betrayal.. what? Altered history in a way it shouldn’t?”

  Bast nodded slowly, relaxing his grip on the table. All around them, the churning of the black sands ceased. Dean breathed an inner sigh of relief as the giant fin that had been circling slipped once more beneath the sand.

  “That is the gist of it, yes. Tartarus has grown stronger over the course of time, and the balance of power has been altered. The Infernal Court has its own agenda. This time, though, they stepped beyond the bounds that should have been possible. Isaac Alarin should never have been crowned a prince of Hell.”

  “You’re afraid of him,” Dean realized, and the scowl on the boyish face nearly made him laugh. “It’s because he has a soul, isn’t it?”

  A muscle ticked in Bast’s jaw, and he looked away.

  “It’s not that he has a soul, but who now controls that soul. The one who calls himself the Black Devil may believe he is in control his own destiny, but the truth is he is just a slave. Like most that serve the Infernal Court, he is compelled to obey his masters.”

  Dean swallowed.

  “And who are they?”

  Bast’s midnight eyes narrowed, and for a long moment, Dean thought he wouldn’t answer.

  “Enemies,” he said at last. “Enemies of my master and a threat to the wider world. Yours isn’t the only world in existence, Dean Thompson. Here in the universe, there is a balance to uphold, and there are more forces at play than you might imagine.”

  Dean folded his arms, digesting this new information. Other worlds? He’d never heard that theory before. Then again, on his world, they believed in the existence of Gods. Was it that far-fetched to assume those Gods had come from somewhere?

  “So why use people like me or Charlotte at all? If you’re so powerful, why not alter events yourself?”

  The Magus slowly shook his head.

  “It’s not that simple. I am not the only one of my kind. Even beings like us have rules we cannot break. Direct interference in a world is strictly forbidden by the tenants that bind us. I warned you that all things have a price, and this is the burden of knowledge. There are some things even I can’t do. At least not without starting a war on a scale that you couldn’t even imagine.”

  “So you want me to alter events,” Dean guessed. “Do the dirty work for you.”

  Bast folded his hands in front of him, eyeing Dean with a cool look.

  “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. I saw your courage at the end – saw you face down a foe you couldn’t hope to defeat, knowing it would cost you your life. You have a strong sense of duty, but there is a reason why I chose yours of all the souls lost on that battlefield. Can you guess what that reason is?”

  Dean mulled over the question. After a moment of silence, he nodded his head.

  “You’re worried about interference.”

  The Magus inclined his head, looking pleased.

  “Yes. Though I am one of the few of my kind that possess time magic, chronomancy is not infallible. As I hinted before, there are other players in this game… players even stronger and more dangerous than I. If I had chosen to resurrect the soul of one of the Saints, for example, or a Dwarven Prince of a favored bloodline.. well. Let’s just say they would be quickly hunted and killed.”

  “That’s why you chose Charlotte,” Dean guessed, fitting the pieces together in his mind. “She was of noble blood, but her power had never been significant. She couldn’t ascend past bronze rank. It’s one of the reasons she chose to fight with the militia rather than being beholden to a Guild.”

  Dean took a breath and asked the question he’d been meaning to for the last few minutes.

  “What will happen to her soul?”

  Bast tilted his head to one side, his void-like eyes suddenly calculating. Dean kept his face impassive, trying not to let his emotions show. He had the leverage in this negotiation, but if he wasn’t careful he could loose it and wind up worse of then he started.

  “Your friend Charlotte made a deal with me some time ago. She wished to alter the timeline to prevent her homeland from being overrun. It happens after mankind loses the war, as you might have predicted. The Elves, both High and Night Courts, resist as best they can, but eventually even they fall to the forces of the depths. Though in her timeline, humanity was never betrayed by one of their own.”

  Bast’s frown deepened.

  “That is an.. entirely new development.”

  And likely to happen again Was what the Magus wasn’t saying. Dean’s insides knotted with a mixture of nerves and anger. He wasn’t likely to forget the Black Devil anytime soon, nor would he forgive. When it came down to it, he would kill the bastard even if it took him years to gain the power to face him.

  “Fine,” Dean said suddenly. He glared down at Bast, his face as stoic as he could muster. “I don’t accept your deal Magus and I won’t ever promise away my soul. But I believe we can reach an agreement. Throughout the course of our conversation, I’ve realized two things. The first is that you’re afraid of the Black Devil. H- I mean, the forces of the depths can’t reach you here. But he has a soul, and that means that he’s dangerous to you. Am I wrong?”

  Dean cocked an eyebrow, and Bast grimaced, sitting back on his cushions.

  “If I said no, would you believe me?”

  Dean ignored him.

  “The second is that you can’t interfere with events directly, which means you need people like me to alter the course of history on your behalf. In otherwards, you need me as much as I need you. So, knowing that I have a counteroffer for you.”

  Dean felt a little mad as he stared down the ancient and powerful chronomancer with absolutely nothing to loose. But there was no way he was backing down now, not after everything.

  Bast stared back at Dean, his face unreadable. Then he let out a soft breath.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let’s hear your proposal. And I will ultimately decide if it’s worth my while or if I should simply cast your soul back into the sea and find someone more.. amenable to negotiation.”

  Dean let the threat pass, even as his stomach tightened with nerves.

  “I want to kill the Spear Saint,” he said. “Before he becomes the Black Devil and has a chance to betray humanity. I know that I’m nothing special. I wasn’t born noble, or trained, destined for the heights of the guilds like those born to power and influence. The truth was that I never really tried, at least not back then. I was always too afraid of becoming an adventurer. In the end, I gave up on the idea that I could ever train to pass the exams and earn my badge as an Iron Ranker. But now….”

  He trailed off as Bast began to laugh.

  The Magus chortled, slapping a hand on his chest.

  “You want to kill Isaac Alarin, the second son of the Grand Duke and one of the strongest Adventurers to ever live? Bold is an understatement. You are aware, of course, that the entrance to the Guilds is rigged, no? Without a title, a substantial amount of money, or a family name, your chances of becoming an Adventurer as an independent are… shall we say… extremely low?”

  Dean clenched his jaw.

  “I’m aware how difficult it is,” he said. “But that won’t hold me back, believe me. I have one chance to get this right, and I don’t plan to waste a second of my life. Not this time.”

  Maybe it was his words, or maybe it was the intensity in his gaze, but Bast’s smile eventually faded, replaced instead by careful calculation. Long minutes passed, and Dean began to wonder if he really would die here without ever getting a chance to avenge humanity. Then, to his surprise, the Magus nodded.

  “Alright,” he said slowly. “I see your ambition. And even if I think it’s a wild shot in the dark, I can’t deny I’m interested to see how high you climb. Or at least how far you’ll fall.”

  That vicious smile had returned, and the Magus leaned forward. This was it. There was no going back.

  “I have one condition,” Dena blurted, causing the Magus to pause.

  “Charlotte’s soul… the fragment of it I mean. I want her set free. If I succeed, then that’s the only condition I’ll accept.”

  Bast considered him for a moment before reaching beneath the table. Black smoke seemed to pool around his hand, and a moment later, a small glass jar appeared in the Magus hand. Within that jar was a tiny white light. It bobbed back and forth like a bird trapped in a cage. Dean swallowed hard when he saw it.

  Don’t worry, Charlotte, this place is only temporary. One way or another, I’ll find a way to set you free.

  “Very Well, Dean Thompson,” said the Magus, setting the jar down between them. If you want your friend's freedom, then that can be arranged. Assuming, of course, that you keep your end of the bargain. Now, come and make the deal with me.”

  Dean had to drag his eyes away from the gently bobbing soul back to the Magus before him.

  Bast’s calm demeanor was gone, replaced by something cold and distant. His features appeared somehow sharper and more angular, giving him an unnatural appearance. As Dean watched, the Magus slowly stuck out a hand.

  “I agree to your terms, human,” he said, his voice now tinged with something powerful. Something other. “Shake my hand and seal this contract in blood.”

  Dean hesitated for a moment, but in the end, he knew this was his path. He would kill the Black Devil, or he would die trying. Stepping forward, he thrust out his hand. Bast’s fingers closed around his wrist, his grip as cold as ice.

  Moments later, Dean hissed through his teeth as pain laced through him. It felt as if the skin on the inside of his wrist was being burned with a hot poker. Blood oozed from some unseen wound, flowing over their clasped hands as the Magus gave him an unnaturally wide smile.

  “Our contract is sealed,” he said as the wind began to howl. It tore at Dean’s clothes, whipping his hair and stinging his face. He had reached the point of no return, and now he would have to use the hand that was dealt him.

  “Good Luck, Dean Thompson,” said the Magus. “You’re going to need it.”

  Dean never got a chance to respond. He was yanked backwards in time, falling backwards into endless darkness. The last thing he remembered was Bast’s loud and echoing laughter.

  ***

  As the tides of his magic died down, Bast felt the familiar exhaustion grip him. He slumped, resting his head in his hand as he focused on controlling the wave of power now coursing through him. It was not something he would have struggled with a hundred years ago, but these days things were different. Magic did not come as naturally to him as it once had.

  “Well, that was interesting,” said a voice from behind him. Bast turned his head, already knowing exactly what he’d see. The apparition of his sister floated in the air nearby. She looked like she always had, wearing the same dress and hairband that she had the day she’d died. The day he’d killed her. Arabella blinked at him with ghostly eyes.

  “Do you think he figured it out?”

  Bast sighed.

  “I doubt it. What does it matter anyway? In the end, he’s just a small fry, and ambition or not, that kid is way out of his depth.”

  “Funny, coming from an eight-year-old.” She quipped.

  Bast snorted.

  “I’ve been eight for nine hundred years, Arabella, you know that.”

  She pouted at him.

  “Asmodeus won’t like you interfering; he never does.”

  Bast waved a hand, trying not to let his annoyance show.

  “Why? I play by the rules. Or at least, my interpretation of them.”

  Arabella laughed, the sound hollow and unearthly.

  “Some things never change. And as for him? They’ll come for him eventually, you know. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out exactly what he is. Regressors make waves, brother. They always do.”

  When he only shrugged, Arabella let out a long sigh.

  “Your funeral.”

  The apparition winked out of existence, and Bast was left staring at the spot she had disappeared. Since the day that she’d died all those years ago, the ghost of Arabella had haunted him. These days she appeared less frequently – a sign perhaps of his mind repairing itself. But that she had appeared to him now… that could only be a bad omen.

  What do you know, dear sister? He thought, narrowing his eyes as he turned back to the table before him. In the scene below, he watched as tiny people moved on tiny worlds, their actions connecting them in threads of inevitable fate.

  What bothered him most was that she had been right, and deep down, he knew it. Though he used all the tricks he knew of to mask his magical aura, chronomancy had its own ripple effect. It would only be a matter of time until the others knew what he’d done, and by then, Dean Thompson would be on his own. Bast produced the hourglass from his coat pocket and lifted it up to the moonlight. Black sand, darker than that around him, glittered within. Reaching down, Bast conjured a portion of his power and tapped the glass, making the sand shimmer with ethereal energy. Then he flipped it over and watched as the slow trickle began.

  “Well now,” he said. “Let’s see exactly what you’re capable of, shall we?”