Back in the shop, the air was heavy with the presence of a thousand relics, but as Quinn led Elara up the grand, spiraling staircase of dark mahogany, the atmosphere shifted. It became hushed, cathedral-like.
The only sound was the rhythmic clack of Quinn's leather shoes and the heavy thud of Elara's tactical boots against the wood.
Quinn moved with a slight limp in his walk, his right arm still a dead weight of grey marble tucked into the pocket of his trench coat. Despite the injury, he managed to look entirely composed.
"Is this your temple?" Elara asked, her voice echoing in the vast, vertical space. She gripped the Bronze Eagle tightly in one hand, her shield slung over her back.
"It's a hallway, Elara. Don't get dramatic," Quinn replied, though a faint smirk played on his lips. He reached the second-floor landing, a long gallery lined with portraits of people whose eyes seemed to follow them.
"Though, in a way, you aren't wrong. The Archive stores history. And history is just a series of rooms we've moved out of."
They walked down a hallway that seemed to stretch further than the building's exterior should have allowed. At the very end sat a single, heavy door of blackened oak, marked with a silver "P."
"That is my space," Quinn said, gesturing to the door.
"My sanctum. Don't enter it unless the building is on fire. Even then, knock first."
Elara frowned. "And where do I sleep? On the floor of your 'temple'?"
Quinn stopped at a blank stretch of mahogany wall, midway down the hall. He turned to face it, tapping the wood three times with the silver head of his cane.
"Spatial expansion is a wonderful thing," he murmured.
Before Elara's eyes, the wallpaper began to ripple like water. A frame of polished brass bled into existence, followed by a door of light cedar. A handle of cold iron materialized last.
"This," Quinn said, stepping back and gesturing with his good hand, "is yours.
My only rule: keep it clean. I don't deal well with clutter, and neither does the Archive."
Elara stepped forward, her hand hesitating on the iron handle. She expected a barracks, narrow cots, the smell of leather and oil, perhaps a rack for her pilums. She pushed the door open and stopped dead.
"There is nothing here," she said, her voice flat with disappointment.
The room was a vast, square void of swirling white mist. There was no floor, no ceiling, only a soft, fog that felt cool against her skin.
"You haven't finished it yet," Quinn said, leaning against the doorframe, looking perfectly at ease despite his stone-heavy arm.
"Finished it?" Elara turned to him, her confusion sharpening into irritation.
"Am I to be a mason as well as a soldier? I do not know how to build a room out of clouds, Paradox."
Quinn chuckled, a low, smooth sound.
"It responds to your mind, Centurion. The Archive is a living record. This room is a blank page waiting for your signature. Don't think about the mud of Britannia. Don't think about the blood or the cold."
He stepped into the fog beside her, his mercury-grey eyes softening.
"Think of the home you wanted. The peace you were promised after twenty years of service to the Eagle. What does 'rest' look like to Elara Valeria?"
Elara closed her eyes. She felt the weight of the Standard in her hand. She thought of the villas in the south—the warmth of the sun on terracotta tiles, the sound of water falling into a basin, the scent of lavender and dry stone.
The mist began to swirl violently.
A floor of white marble surged up to meet her boots. Pillars of fluted stone spiraled toward a ceiling painted with a mural of a clear Mediterranean sky. A large, plush bed draped in crimson silks materialized in the corner, and against the far wall, a small, tiered fountain began to bubble, the sound of water filling the silence.
Elara opened her eyes and gasped. It was more than a room; it was a memory perfected. It was a Roman villa, but with the subtle touch of modern comfort to it.
"By the Gods," she whispered, walking to the fountain and touching the cool water.
"It is… 100 times nicer than the commander's quarters in Eburacum."
"The Archive aims to please its best assets," Quinn said, his smirk widening as he watched her wonder.
Quinn walked to the center of the room, where a small, circular indentation sat in the marble floor.
"Give me the Standard," he said.
Elara handed over the Bronze Eagle. Quinn took it with his left hand, his face tightening as he exerted the effort to lift the heavy relic.
He planted the staff into the indentation.
CLICK.
The Standard locked into place. Suddenly, the Bronze Eagle began to pulse with a soft, rhythmic golden light. A wave of warm energy, smelling of sun-baked earth and ancient victory, washed through the room.
Quinn stood in the center of the glow. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket. The grey marble was already beginning to hairline-fracture.
CRACK.
With a sound like breaking pottery, the stone scales began to flake off his skin, turning into fine grey dust that vanished before it hit the floor. His hand emerged pink and free of burns. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, rotating his wrist and flexing his fingers.
"Much better," he muttered. "The 'Weight' just dropped by forty percent. I can actually feel my limbs again."
Elara watched him, her brow furrowed.
"You said that the eagle was a battery. It heals you by… using the souls inside it?"
"No," Quinn corrected, leaning against the Standard.
"It heals me by providing a Baseline. My arm was stone because the universe was trying to delete the 'me' that existed in 120 AD. By bringing this Standard here—an object of absolute significance from that era—I've convinced the Archive that my actions in that timeline were 'valid.' It cancels out the debt."
Elara sat on the edge of her silk-draped bed, her tactical gear feeling suddenly out of place in the elegant room. She looked at Quinn, who was now examining his healed hand with clinical interest.
"You speak of 'Weight' and 'Debt' and 'Logic,'" Elara said. "In my world, a man swings a sword or he does not. What is this power you use? Is it all just… trickery with clocks?"
Quinn pulled up a wooden chair—which had manifested specifically for him—and sat down.
"It's energy manipulation, Elara. Just abilities that hadn't been discovered by your people yet. There are three pillars to this energy manipulation."
He held up one finger.
"First, there's Static. That's your specialty. It's the energy of 'Being.' It's used to enhance the body, create immovable shields, and lock things in place. It's the art of staying exactly as you are, no matter what hits you."
"I am a wall," Elara mused. "I can understand that."
Quinn held up a second finger.
"Then there's Flux. My primary field. It's the energy of 'Change.' Accelerating time to turn stone to sand, slowing it down to dodge a blade, or swapping positions in space. It also allows healing, by reversing the wound."
"And the monsters?" she asked. "The glass men, what energy do they use?"
"Echo," Quinn said, as he held up a third finger.
"The energy of Expulsion. It is the most violent of the three. If Static is holding a door shut, and Flux is changing the lock, Echo is the act of kicking the door off its hinges and throwing everything inside into the street."
Elara rubbed her temples, her head beginning to throb.
"Static. Flux. Echo. And the 'Rot' is the universe's bill for using them?"
"Exactly," Quinn said.
"But wait," Elara said, looking up. "If you have this 'Flux' and you are the master of this Archive… why did you need the Standard to heal your arm? You told me you have magic that can reverse decay. Why not just heal yourself?"
Quinn's expression turned serious.
"Because Temporal Rot isn't a wound, Elara. If I cut my hand with a knife, I can use Flux to speed up my cells and heal it in a second. But Rot is 'Anti-Existence.' It's the universe saying my arm doesn't exist anymore."
Elara looked lost. "I do not understand the difference."
"Think of it this way," Quinn explained.
"If a page in a book is torn, you can tape it back together. That's healing. But if the ink is erased from the page entirely… taping it won't help. You need to find the original ink well to rewrite it. The Standard is the 'ink' of your era. Only something from the same timeline can prove to the universe that I am allowed to be whole again."
Elara stared at him for a long moment, her mouth slightly agape. Her brain was clearly trying to reconcile "Spatial Accordions," "Entropy Reversal," and "Era-Energy" with her life of simple military formations and pilum drills.
"My head," she whispered, "feels as if it has been struck by a Gaulish mace."
Quinn looked at her, and for the first time since they had met, the arrogant mask slipped. He gave her a soft, genuine smile—one that actually reached his eyes.
"I apologize," he said gently.
"I've lived in the 'In-Between' for a long time. I forget that for most people, time is just a sunrise and a sunset. It took me thirty years and at least three near-death experiences to understand even half of this. I don't expect you to grasp it over a fountain."
Elara exhaled, the tension in her shoulders dropping.
"You are a strange man, Quinn Paradox. Handsome, yes. But very, very strange."
Quinn laughed, standing up and brushing off his coat. "I've been called worse. Rest, Centurion. Your Sync Rate is still low, and you need to—"
DING-LING.
The sound cut through the quiet of the room like a blade. It wasn't the deep, booming chime of the magical alarm. It was the sharp, rhythmic bell of the front door.
A customer.
Quinn's entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The mentor was gone, replaced by the wary, calculating man.
He checked his watch.
"2:00 AM," he whispered, his eyes narrowing.
"The normal shop should be closed at this hour unless they're looking for something else."
He looked at Elara, his hand going to his silver cane.
"Stay here. If I don't come back in five minutes, find the side exit."
"Like a coward?" Elara stood up, her hand finding her gladius.
"I think not."
Quinn smirked, his mercury eyes glinting with a dangerous light. "Then try to look like an antique. We have company.