“Time”

  “I traveled back in time,” he said flatly. “Confronted the black tigers before they attacked. I saved all of you—but you six—” he glanced at Archangela, correcting— “seven are from the previous timeline. When we get back to the real world, you will all have a twin sister…”

  Utter silence.

  Then reactions crashed in.

  Kana froze first, eyes going impossibly wide, a choked sound escaping her throat—half-sob, half-laugh of disbelief. Her hands flew to her mouth, tears spilling instantly as hope, confusion, and joy warred across her face. “M-Mama…?” she whispered, rocking forward as if she might bolt for the boundary right then.

  The five weretigresses erupted in stages.

  The one who had stood up first—short-cropped silver hair—stared at John like he’d grown a second head, mouth working silently before she blurted, “Twins? You mean… us? Here?” Her hands trembled, clutching at her armor as if to ground herself.

  Beside her, a taller tigress with long braids whispered hoarsely, “Shira… alive?” Her eyes darted to the others, then back to John, filling with tears she blinked away furiously. “How—time? You’re saying we’re… ghosts?”

  The third—a wiry huntress with a fresh but fading burn mark on her cheek—laughed, sharp and brittle, shaking her head. “Impossible. I saw her fall. Talissa. The Shaman. We fought…” Her voice cracked; she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

  The fourth tigress, youngest-looking, simply rocked back on her heels, staring at John with raw awe. “You… went back? For us?” Awe tipped into something worshipful, her fingers tracing absent runes on her spear.

  The fifth sat stone-still, eyes glassy, whispering, “Lara… my sister… alive…” A single tear traced her cheek; she didn’t wipe it away.

  Archangela remained impassive, but her gaze on John held a new layer—respect, perhaps, or the quiet acknowledgment of someone who had just witnessed a mortal bend the divine.

  John let their reactions wash over him, hands raised placatingly. “I know it sounds mad. But it’s true. I’ll prove it—when we step out.”

  Kana lunged forward suddenly, grabbing his hands. “You saved Mama? Everyone?” Her voice broke into sobs, joy and disbelief tangling.

  The tigresses leaned in, chaos of emotion swirling—disbelief, hope, fear of hope—but all eyes fixed on him, hanging on his next words.

  John rose smoothly. “One more thing.”

  He reached out mentally: Archangela. Join me in the Shelter please.

  The boundary shimmered; his Archangela—the one who had remained in the weretigresses’ encampment—stepped through, eyes flicking over the scene with calm efficiency.

  Now there were two identical Archangelas, standing side by side, expressions mirror-calm but gazes subtly different—one carrying the weight of seeing John’s ferocious side, the other the weight of the timeline before.

  John turned to the newcomer. He said aloud for the others but mentally, he was transmitting much more information to Archangela. “Black tigers attacked. Encampment burned. Most died. I rewound my consciousness—saved this timeline. They’re from then.”

  She nodded once, absorbing it without blink. “Understood.”

  The six weretigresses stared at the two angels, mouths agape, eyes darting between flawless duplicates.

  John noticed. He had never explained why angels followed him or why he could transform into a golden dragon. “This is a long story,” he said. “I’ll explain another time.”

  He moved to the house, gathering six hooded robes—simple, deep gray cloth with wide hoods that would conceal faces and hair. He handed them out. “Put these on.”

  The six—Kana and the other five tigresses—complied, hoods shadowing their features, transforming them into enigmatic figures.

  “What are your names?” he asked the five. He knew Kana’s.

  The short-cropped one: “Mira.”

  Long braids: “Sylva.”

  Wiry one with the burn: “Elyse.”

  Youngest: “Lirra.”

  Stone-still one: “Veyna.”

  He nodded. “Kana, Mira, Sylva, Elyse, Lirra, Veyna. Got it.”

  He opened the boundary and stepped out, followed by the two Archangelas and the six hooded figures.

  Outside, the encampment bustled—tigresses repairing minor damage from the brief standoff, laughter returning tentatively.

  John strode forward. “Shaman! Kana! Klara! Mira! Sylva! Elyse! Lirra! Veyna!”

  Heads turned. Confusion rippled.

  The real Kana emerged from a tent, blinking. “John? Why call my name?”

  Klara followed, brow furrowed. The Shaman glided from her hut, eyes sharp. The real Mira, Sylva, Elyse, Lirra, and Veyna appeared one by one, exchanging puzzled glances. They did not think John really knew them as they had not interacted much.

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  Shira paused mid-conversation, surprised to be left out—but as the Shaman’s daughter, she followed anyway, curiosity winning.

  “This way,” John said. “Let us speak in private.”

  The Shaman gestured to her hut—a sturdy dome of woven hides and bone, incense-scented and hung with totems. They filed in: the nine “originals” plus John, the two Archangelas, and the six hooded ones.

  The space was tight; they sat in a crammed circle.

  John didn’t waste words. “Some of you died.”

  Silence hit like a slap.

  Shira’s eyes narrowed. Klara tensed. The real Kana gasped. The others looked confused, but the Shaman’s gaze sharpened, as if piecing together fragments of foresight before he spoke.

  “The black tigers attacked,” John continued flatly. “Killed most of you. I traveled back in time to stop it. Took the six survivors with me across the divide. So now… there are copies of you.”

  He nodded to the hooded figures. “Show them.”

  Hoods fell back.

  Silver hair spilled free. Identical faces stared at identical faces.

  Chaos erupted.

  Real Kana screamed, lunging for her hooded duplicate—“Who are you?!”—before Klara yanked her back, eyes wide as saucers on her daughter’s twin.

  Klara staggered, hand to her mouth, staring at hooded Kana—no, her daughter? “Kana? How—what?”

  The Shaman went still, eyes glazing briefly as visions confirmed truth. She whispered, “The blue one walks Time…” then reached for the hooded ones, fingers trembling on silver braids.

  Real Mira barked a laugh, sharp and disbelieving, pointing at her duplicate. “You’re me? Prove it—tell me what I whispered to Sylva after the last hunt!”

  Hooded Mira met her gaze evenly. “You said the blue tiger smells like storm and secrets. And you were right.”

  Mira paled, collapsing back.

  Sylva (real) clutched her hair, whispering, “Sister?” to her hooded twin, who nodded tearfully—two identical faces mirroring joy and horror.

  Elyse hyperventilated, hands shaking as she touched hooded Elyse’s burn scar—exact match apart from the burn. “Burns?”

  Lirra stared in awe, whispering prayers, while hooded Lirra mouthed the same ones in sync.

  Veyna sat frozen, then embraced her duplicate—silent tears for two.

  Shira, last, growled low, circling in search of her absent twin; none for her? Eyes flicking to John, she said. “You… did this?”

  The hut rang with sobs, gasps, questions—a whirlwind of selves confronting selves, lives unlived colliding with lives saved.

  John watched, the weight of it all settling heavier than any battle.

  John raised his hands, quieting the storm of sobs and questions in the Shaman’s hut. The duplicates and originals sat intermingled now, hands clasped across timelines, faces streaked with tears of relief and bewilderment.

  “I probably owe an explanation to the whole tribe,” he said, voice steadying. “But I wanted you to know about your clones first—and you, Klara, as Kana’s mother.”

  Klara nodded mutely, arm around her daughter—both, now—eyes still wide.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  Word spread like wildfire through the encampment. Tigresses gathered in the central clearing, whispers buzzing. A simple stage was hastily organized: a raised platform of woven hides and bone struts around the fire pit, blue flames casting flickering light on expectant faces.

  John climbed it, flanked by the two Archangelas. Behind him, the six hooded figures stood—Kana and her duplicate together, the five tigress pairs side by side.

  Hundreds of silver-haired weretigresses watched, Shira and the Shaman at the front.

  John spoke.

  He began after leaving the tribe: brutal tournaments where he fought beasts and warriors, honing skills in arenas of blood, sand and stone. Days among dragons—high peaks, ancient lairs, unlocking a draconic transformation through trials of fire and wing. The power to morph not just into blue tiger, but dragon as well. He also said that his angelic companion was taken out from a trial of the dragons, not unlike the white weretigresses’ totem trial. The huntresses wouldn’t know that dragons were normally unable to take their pets to the real world but they certainly never heard of dragons being accompanied by angels.

  He wove in the black tigers’ attack—the other timeline’s slaughter, tents burning, bodies falling. His rage. The hunt to extinction.

  Finally: “I rewound Time. Not the world. Me. Carried my mind back to before the assault and saved you all.”

  He omitted the gods—the lesser ones in Celestor, vaporized by Serenielle, he omitted the latter’s ichor and did not explain that his dragon form was not a simple one. No divine system-blocking collars were mentioned. No mysterious old men, though the brief heavenly descent earlier lingered unspoken in his audience’s minds.

  Gasps rippled. Eyes widened.

  When he described the other timeline—the near-extermination, sisters lost to claws and chains—understanding dawned.

  The tigresses who had eyed him warily after the hunt now softened. Whispers turned to murmurs of awe. “He raged for us,” one said. “Erased them to the last.”

  Gratitude swelled—fiercer, deeper. Hands clasped chests; heads bowed. They saw not just salvation, but the cost he had paid in fury for their lives.

  The Shaman stepped forward, raising her hands for silence. Her voice carried, resonant and sure.

  “You have reached unthinkable heights for a human boy,” she said. “You are fate-touched.”

  The clearing erupted in roars—approval, pride, the fierce kinship of a tribe that now claimed him not just as ally, but as legend.

  The six weretigresses from the other timeline—Mira, Sylva, Elyse, Lirra, Veyna, and Kana—were luckily received with open arms.

  No suspicion. No rejection. Sisters embraced sisters across the impossible divide, silver hair mingling, tears flowing freely under the blue firelight. Mira pulled her “duplicate” into a crushing hug first, whispering names and memories only they shared. Klara enveloped both Kanas, sobbing laughter as they clung. The tribe wove them back in seamlessly—tents reassigned, meals shared, stories exchanged late into the night. By dawn, the duplicates were no longer “clones,” but simply returned kin, fate-touched like their savior. But the five who had witnessed the horror of annihilation would need some time for inner wounds to heal. The other timeline’s Kana was not scarred like that though as she fled before the true horrors started.

  John stayed.

  Days blurred into a rare calm amid the jungle’s endless rhythm.

  By the fire pit, evenings found him cross-legged with Shira and the Shaman, recounting sanitized tales of tournaments and dragon lairs. Laughter rang out as he mimicked a pompous elf mage’s downfall; Shira ruffled his hair, calling him “little paradox” with gruff affection. The blue flames danced, casting warm glows on silver faces, the air rich with roasted meat and herbal smoke.

  Hunts turned leisurely. John joined smaller groups, as regular sized blue tiger as there was no need to hunt as a giant—Mira and her duplicate stalking a ridge together, trading tips on spear throws. He shifted to blue tiger happily, padding silently beside white forms, senses blending into the pack’s harmony. No black tigers haunted the shadows; prey fell cleanly, shared feasts following under starlit canopies.

  Kana and her twin became inseparable shadows at his side. They pestered him with questions during quiet afternoons by the stream—How does dragon flight feel? Did Time really bend?—giggling as he demonstrated tiny sparks of Light mana from his third circle. Klara watched from afar, eyes soft with maternal pride doubled.

  The two Archangelas… evolved.

  They rarely spoke to others, but between themselves? A strange rapport bloomed. John caught them in quiet moments: seated back-to-back on a fallen log at dawn, eyes closed, as if synchronizing thoughts through their shared link. Once, sparring lightly in a clearing—identical movements mirroring, testing each other’s edges without true conflict. Another evening, by the river, one traced a hand on the other’s cheek, a silent exchange passing between them. Mutual understanding, forged in the crucible of being the same yet from shattered worlds.

  John watched it all from the edges—clean now, rested, the blood washed away. No hunts. No loops. Just tribe, fire, the slow heal of what had almost been lost.

  For a few days, the paradox rested.