Perilous Pursuit for Time: Chapter 4 – The Sorcerer Who Collected Seconds

The spring in the mountain bowl glimmered with patient simplicity. Water fell from stone as though it had been doing so since before the moons had quarreled, and would go on long after they reconciled. For one breathless moment, all three companions stared at it in reverence—Dorian with trembling hands that wanted to strum its song, Jarek with a soldier’s yearning for resolution, and Pherelar with the hungry eyes of a man who had not been still in days.

Then the shadow peeled itself from the air.

The sorcerer emerged like a page being turned, the black ink of his coat spreading across the parchment of the world. His smile was thin, hungry, and not meant for reassurance.

“I have walked ahead of you and behind you,” he said conversationally, as though greeting acquaintances at a tea stall. “And here you are—punctual, Pherelar Jadesyl. Admirable. Punctuality is the only politeness time respects.”

His presence warped the air. Seconds bent around him as if unwilling to touch him directly. The companions stiffened, the curse’s weight returning like a reminder of debts unpaid.

The sorcerer lifted his hand, and the wind remembered that it owed him favors. Sand leapt from the ground, swirling into walls that formed a crude amphitheater. Stone vibrated underfoot. The very mountains leaned inward as if curious.

And from below, on the goat-path from Saint Ghislaine, villagers felt a tug at their ribs. The baker wiped flour from her hands and climbed. The blacksmith, hammer still in his grip, trudged upward. Children scampered, giggling, as their parents followed grim-faced. Elders leaned on canes but moved with surprising speed. They did not know why, only that they were being summoned—not by choice, but by story.

Within minutes, the bowl was full. Farmers, shepherds, smiths, bakers, children—all stood ringed around the arena of sand. They gasped as they beheld the figures: the mage pacing, the bard tuning, the knight standing sentinel, and the sorcerer smiling like a man about to collect what was owed.

The amphitheater was complete. The stage was set.

The Bard Takes the Stage
Dorian’s eyes gleamed as he plucked a bright, mocking flourish. He turned to the villagers with a grin that could have sold rain in a flood.

“A villain in black with shadows to spare,
But we’ve music, steel, and snacks to share!
Now clap your hands, good folk, don’t wait,
For your applause will seal his fate!”

The crowd, uncertain, laughed nervously but clapped anyway. Children squealed with delight. The sorcerer sneered.

“Distraction,” Jarek muttered, steadying his blade. “Good. But keep them safe.”

The First Clash
The sorcerer struck. He bent a second until it snapped, then wielded its recoil like a whip. The lash cracked through the air, tearing gouges in stone.

Jarek stepped forward, shield raised. The blow landed with the force of an avalanche. Dust exploded, villagers cried out, but Jarek stood firm. His arms shook, but his voice was calm: “I hold.”

Another lash came—then another. Jarek absorbed them, each strike ringing like a bell struck too hard. His shield arm numbed, but he anchored himself in his vows. His patron’s dark pact thrummed in his blood, while his paladin’s oath sang like steel. Together, they made him an unyielding wall.

Meanwhile, Pherelar darted around the edge of the fight, muttering spells between bites of candied nuts. “Motion’s easy, dessert is better,” he quipped, flinging sigils into the air. His runes bent seconds into lattices, forcing the sorcerer’s whips to snap against barriers of logic and geometry.

But it was Dorian who turned the fight into theater. His chords forced rhythm into the chaos, dictating where spells landed, guiding Pherelar’s steps across measures, shaping Jarek’s counters into choreography. And all the while, he kept the crowd engaged, their claps becoming percussion.

“Saint Ghislaine!” he shouted over the din. “Clap your hands—clap as if your lives depend on it!”

They did. Hundreds of hands beat together, sound rising like rain in reverse. Each clap became a moment, each moment a brick, and the sorcerer found himself boxed in by the villagers’ collective rhythm.

The Sorcerer Splits
But he was clever. Too clever. The sorcerer smiled, and with a flick, he split into three. Shadows of himself peeled away, each wearing his hungry face.

Two lunged at Jarek from opposite sides, blades of black light flashing. The third slipped like smoke toward the spring, eyes glinting with quiet hunger.

“Contain!” Jarek barked, parrying one shadow, then another. His blade rang, his shield screamed under the assault. Sweat slicked his brow, but he held. “I can manage two. Stop the third!”

Pherelar calculated the distance. His curse snarled at hesitation. He knew he was a half-breath too late. His chest clenched.

The Bard’s Trick
Dorian’s grin sharpened. He stamped his hoof, struck a discordant chord, and changed the world’s rhythm.

“Four beats? No more!
Now five—surprise!
Trip the tyrant,
Blind his eyes!”

The crowd stumbled, laughed, then adjusted. The clapping shifted into five-count, uneven but strong. The mountains themselves seemed to hiccup. The sorcerer faltered, caught mid-stride. He had never learned to dance.

Pherelar arrived in that stolen beat, net of silver moonlight already in his hands. He cast it with the precision of a fisherman who knew exactly where the current would carry his catch. The net flared, fell, and closed.

The End of Shadows
The bound sorcerer writhed, shadows collapsing into him, twisting. Jarek seized the chance. He pivoted, shield slamming one shadow into another, blade driving through both. His voice was grim, decisive. “Fact: shadows cannot outlast light.”

The doubles shattered. Only one remained: the man in the black coat, bound, panting, suddenly smaller.

“You could free me,” he said, his voice both plea and temptation. “With me, you would never run out of time.”

Pherelar’s chest ached with the curse’s hunger. He walked a circle, keeping his body in motion, breath ragged. Then he shook his head, eyes bright with fire. “You are too fond of chains. Time isn’t meant to be shackled. Drink from your own prison.”

With a twist of his wrist, the net tightened. The shadow leaked from the sorcerer like smoke from a cracked chimney. It did not vanish—evil never does—but enough left that a man remained.

The villagers roared. Dorian’s final flourish resolved the rhythm back to four. Jarek lowered his blade, nodding once.

Pherelar turned, panting, to the spring.

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