The Chronomancer and The Twins of Time

When I come to, I’m no longer upright, but laid out on my bed, someone must have carried me, maybe even the same hands that once kept me from spilling out into London traffic. My breasts ache; I feel the stickiness of ruined silk and something cool pressing against my brow.

I open my eyes, slowly, and the world swims into focus.

She’s there: Drina. Regal even on the edge of my mattress, eyes dark as onyx, hair a wild river of black shot with silver, half a dozen scarves and necklaces jangling and catching every thread of light. The infamous Boswell matriarch is called in whenever the world spins sideways.

She studies me with an expression that’s somewhere between concern, calculation, and a trace of that Romani humour that’s seen centuries of secrets.

“Well, love,” she says, voice both rough and oddly kind,

“You’ve been making messes not even women like me ever get to clean up. Let’s see what sort of miracle we’re truly dealing with, shall we?”

As the room and its chaos fade behind Drina’s gravity, I realise that whatever comes next, fate’s put my cards in the hands of a gypsy queen. And for once, I find that oddly comforting.

Drina’s hands are warm and oddly weightless as she works over me—stroking my hair, pressing her palm against my forehead, then finally smoothing slow circles over my glowing belly.?!

Her bracelets jingle with each motion; it sounds almost like bells, almost like wind chimes in another world.

A hush falls, the light in the room bending strangely. 

My eyelids flutter—and suddenly I’m nowhere I know: burning blue sky above, sand hot and endless at my back, the air trembling with sun.

Asdar stands beside me, cloth billowing around him, so solid and calm I almost cry. He smiles with that comforting, steadfast grace, stoops, and touches my face.

“Don’t fear, my goddess,” he murmurs, voice a balm across centuries, “I have been preparing for what comes next. Live your life. Ignore what you must. The world will demand much; you owe it nothing but your truth.”

For a moment, peace anchors itself in my chest, as if the sand itself is holding me upright.

And then, as suddenly as I arrived, Asdar begins to dissolve, warmth slipping away with the wind and the roar of distant stars. There is a pulse—a golden light rising from my belly, brighter than before, humming with some secret just out of reach—

I blink awake on my bed, Drina’s face looming, her eyes glinting with secrets.

She leans close, fingers strong and certain.

 “Listen well, Elena,” she whispers, “You carry more than you know. More than one soul rests in you—two hearts, two lights.” Her hand rests squarely over my belly, the weight of fates and legacies pooling behind her eyes.

“Not every story is told by just one child. You bring a duet—past and future stitched together. Always remember, miracles don’t like to travel alone.”

I stare back, stunned but suddenly not alone at all. Drina’s magic, Asdar’s promise, the gold humming beneath my skin—this is my road, however tilted. I nod, feeling strength return where fear once lived.

The world expects a miracle.

It will get two.

I wake again to the low drone of voices, the muted sound of cups on saucers—Drina, no doubt, commanding the Boswell boys with a word and a glare. I breathe in, feeling the world reassemble itself: gold dried and flaked on my skin, a thrum in my belly as if ancestral drums were beating double-time.

When I sit up, Tarmo is there in the corner, arms folded, gaze pinned on the threadbare rug. He doesn’t move, doesn’t fill the room with his usual gravity, just waits.

I sigh—give in before the argument can even begin. “Skip the apology, Tarmo. Whatever it is, it’s late, and I’m tired.”

He doesn’t bristle. His voice is measured, bruised around the edges. “I’m not here to apologise. Not exactly. I just… I knew the moment it started. I felt a thug. 

The gold.” His eyes flick to the gold-stained towel in my lap, a faint, sad smile playing on his lips.

I hold his gaze, wary. “You always know more than you say. Funny how you never know when to stop.”

“I came to you because I thought you could handle it. Bucharest, Sandi, even the Uruk abyss—I thought you could weather it all.” He sighs, his hand flexing tight around the chair’s arm. “Somewhere along the way, I forgot you weren’t mine to risk.”

“And yet you did. Was I a pawn, Tarmo? Or just the most convenient accomplice?” My voice drops. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

He nods, pain showing plain. “You shouldn’t. There are things I’ll never forgive myself for: using you to save myself, losing Sandi. But there’s something else you should know—when I left Istanbul, after… after the Pera, I went looking for answers. In Iran, with a shaman. I saw who we were before time. In Uruk, we chose each other. Again and again, across destruction and rebirth. Losing you is an old wound.”

I almost laugh, but my voice shakes. “So what now? History on repeat? Am I meant to fall at your feet because some desert ghost says I did once?”

He shakes his head, earnestness softening him. “No. You decide. I came as soon as I felt you needed me. I won’t run this time, and I won’t tell you what to do. I just want to be here.” He hesitates. “Even if only as the man who waits in your kitchen while others point the guns.”

I study him—truly see him—for the first time in months. The lines on his face run deeper; his stoicism is worn thin, replaced by a quiet, almost fatal stubbornness.

“The children?” I finally ask, voice a whisper.

He meets my eyes, and for a moment, I remember the man I almost trusted. “I know one is mine. I don’t need paternity tests, Elena. I just want you to be safe. And…” His voice drops. “If you decide, I want to know both of them. Even if it means serving you, for once, instead of my own ambitions.”

For a long, swollen moment, I let silence be my answer. Then, hoarse, I say: “You’ll have to earn that place, Tarmo. And you’ll do it by listening, without schemes, without chess. I won’t let history repeat itself if I can help it.”

Tarmo nods, a slow, hard-earned smile flickering. “I can do that. For you—and for them.”

He doesn’t try to touch me, not yet, but the space between us feels less perilous. For the first time in our lifetimes, perhaps, we are simply two people, battered by miracles, uncertain, and—just maybe—ready to begin again.

Drina sweeps into the room with the authority of a woman who’s spent a lifetime settling men’s storms. She gives Tarmo a look so sharp it could slice steel—a warning and a promise in one glance. 

Her voice is brisk, decisive:

“That’s enough truth-telling for one day. Out, all of you. The lady needs rest and space, not more ghosts and guilt. Go on. Out.”

Even Tarmo obeys, stepping out of my room. 

The Boswell boys, still blinking at the golden spectacle and the legendary company in Elena’s tiny townhouse, shuffle out, muttering a mix of awe and confusion. Bartley, always the mouth, calls from the hallway, “We’ll be right outside, Dr. D! Screaming distance. Don’t you worry.”

Mikael, arms crossed, barely deigns to react. He shares a knowing look with Tarmo, the unspoken language of men who have weathered more than one impossible night. He lingers in the doorway, silver gaze locked on mine, protective.

I.Ph.