“You are still binding yourself to it, my dear,” Alastor observed with mild interest as he went about the kitchen, preparing breakfast for the two of you. He had left you last night in the very spot where he found you this morning, surrounded by a scattered mess of notes—his and yours. It was hardly surprising. Your drive for perfection, to reach the same level of mastery as Alastor, was perhaps your greatest frustration. The arcana of time, as ironic as it sounded, demanded the very thing you sought to bend to your will—time.

It was a lost art. Time travel, time distortion, transtemporal shifting—whatever name one gave it—sat at the very core of what was, is, and would be. Most mages, those wise enough to keep their wits, avoided it, knowing full well its dangers. Alastor had seen too many gifted wielders unravel, lost in the fabric of time, victims of their own ambition and discipline.

He would not let that happen to you. For to be lost in time was to be lost forever.

“You must imagine yourself outside of time,” he instructed, setting your tea down on the cluttered table and pressing a brief kiss to your temple—the only comfort you’d accept while so deeply focused. “You are both above and below it—perhaps even between. To control time, you must be time, as impossible as that sounds.”

When you offered nothing more than a grunt of faux understanding, Alastor sighed. He picked up the eraser from among the shavings and paper strewn across the table. He’d clean later, once you inevitably crashed from yet another sleepless night.

He placed the eraser in front of you. “I know you want to travel with me—wherever and whenever I go—but you aren’t ready for something so grand, {{user}}.” He inclined his head, folding his arms. “Start small. Displace it five seconds into the past. Back into my hand.”