They arrived in Uvvvaek by dusk, or perhaps dawn — in that city, the difference had long since been negotiated into irrelevance.
But before they crossed into its warped boundaries, the journey itself began to grow strange.
They had traveled on foot from the Ministry, following a guide stone that only pointed toward conceptual directions — forward regret, left of logic, and inward until it hurts. The air around them twisted like a sheet of thin metal in heat. Occasionally, the horizon blinked.
At one point, they passed a river that flowed backward, spitting out fish who cursed their names. A fisherman waved to them and asked, "Have you forgotten me yet?" before vanishing into mist.
"Is this the border already?" Ashwen asked.
"No," Ilyan said. "This is just the waiting room."
Further ahead, a tree grew upside-down, its roots piercing the sky. It whispered riddles that made their ears itch. Ilyan reached out once, tempted, but Ashwen slapped his hand away.
"Don't listen," she said. "That kind of truth isn't for mortals."
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
When the mist finally parted, Uvvvaek stood like a contradiction on the land's edge, twisting upward in layers of broken time and fractured grammar.
The buildings leaned like drunken philosophers. Some floors jutted from impossible angles; others existed only during brief moments when both moons blinked. Street lamps whispered secrets to passersby and accused dogs of unpaid debts.
A clocktower struck thirteen.
Ashwen sniffed the air. "I hate this place."
"You've been here before?" Ilyan asked.
"No. That's how I know."
They passed a vendor who sold memories he claimed were pre-owned but 'barely experienced.' Ilyan nearly tripped over a shadow that wasn't his.
Then the buzzing in his satchel intensified. He opened it. The relic was quiet — but beside it, a small coin shimmered and rolled to the flap on its own.
"Well, about time," it snapped. Its voice was posh, nasal, and deeply offended.
Ashwen blinked. "Did your money just insult us?"
"Money? Please. I am a Translator of Bureaucratic Writ and an Auditor of Abstract Law, Third Grade. You may call me Groat."
"You're a coin," Ilyan said.
"I was a lawyer. Now I'm efficient."
Ashwen chuckled despite herself.
Groat gleamed smugly. "Your relic has awakened a dormant clause in your metaphysical profile, Ilyan of the Recently Dead. That's why the Ministry flagged your case. Unclaimed paperwork is a capital offense in three adjacent realities."
"Then we'll get the form," Ilyan muttered. "Vault of Rejected Truths, right?"
Groat hopped to Ilyan's palm. "Indeed. The Vault lies beneath the Chrono-Sanctum, sealed with paradoxes. You must declare your identity under oath... while knowing you may no longer be telling the truth."
They passed an alley where a crow was negotiating with a mural. The mural won.
Uvvvaek's heart was a broken spiral of steps and glass bridges. They reached the Sanctum's entrance — a gate of ink-stained marble. Above it, three words carved in shifting script:
YOU NEVER WERE.
Groat's tone shifted, lower and more deliberate. "Once inside, memories will not behave. Truth will misquote itself. And the Vault will require... sincerity."
"Sincerity?" Ashwen asked.
"Yes," Groat said. "A terrible, exhausting thing. That's why most people lie instead. I recommend you don't."
Ilyan looked to Ashwen. "Ready?"
"No. But I'm going anyway."
He nodded. "That's my line."
The Sanctum's door creaked open. Groat gleamed once, then dimmed as they stepped inside — into a place where their own pasts might lie in wait, disguised as futures.