Vault of Unbegun Tomorrows

The descent into Kirellion’s ruins was not a journey—it was a surrender. Virell Thorn moved through the fractured corridors of the Vault of Unbegun Tomorrows, where time had once been hoarded, traded, and lost. The air shimmered with residual chronal static, and every step risked slipping into a moment that never was.

He found the pedestal by accident—or perhaps by design. It was cracked, half-swallowed by the floor, surrounded by memory scrolls that had decayed into ash. Time safes lay shattered, their contents spilled into impossible loops. And there, embedded in obsidian stone, was the Lens.

Coin-sized. Black as void. Etched with concentric rings that pulsed faintly as he approached.

Virell reached out, and the vault held its breath.

The moment his fingers touched the Lens, the present fractured. Not violently—but like a mirror catching light. Through the artifact’s surface, he saw flickers: a version of himself walking away, another kneeling in grief, one laughing beside a stranger whose face he couldn’t place.

He held it to his eye.

The visions danced, shifting with each heartbeat. Futures not promised, but possible. The Lens didn’t show him what would be—it sang of what could be. Emotion shaped the chorus. Intention tuned it.

Virell lowered the Lens, breath shallow. It hadn’t given him answers. It had given him questions he hadn’t known to ask.

He pocketed the artifact, not as a weapon, nor a guide—but as a reminder. Time was not a line. It was a language. And he had just learned its first word.

Discover the Lens of Echoed Futures Collection or Read more of Virell’s stories