I had never felt time the way I did that day.
It didn't pass. It coiled.
Around me, beneath me, through the circle of runes drawn in dust and gold. The magic I summoned didn't roar—it held, tight and absolute, like gravity in reverse.
Because I wasn't just binding power.
I was binding time.
It had taken months to prepare. Years, if you count the knowledge I brought with me into this world. I understood the danger of what I was doing, and I did it anyway.
Because the future was already written.
And I intended to rewrite it.
The Chronolock wasn't designed for punishment. Not originally. That was a useful side effect.
Its purpose was far greater.
A cage made of seconds. A time-stilled space built to anchor a reality-altering spell—one that would reach across decades to the moment Henry Winchester opened a hole in time… and swap the real Men of Letters master key for an imitation.
The real key would come to me.
The imitation would continue on, undetected by Abaddon, Sam, Dean—everyone.
Even the Bunker wouldn't know.
Because the Chronolock wouldn't allow the universe to notice the switch.
But for now, the key-switching spell remained incomplete.
I had the knowledge. I lacked the ingredients.
So this day was about anchoring the future.
Securing the lock.
The ritual space shimmered in the low morning light.
Don had built the circle from ancient alchemical stone—each etching reinforced with Void-laced obsidian I harvested during my astral projection into a collapsed dimension.
Maggie lit the binding oils in silence, her expression composed but wary. Even she didn't know if the spell would hold. Not fully.
They didn't interfere.
They never did when I was close to something this large.
Because they knew I wasn't just a child with power.
I was power with a child's face.
I stood in the center.
Barefoot. Eyes closed. Heart silent.
And I whispered the phrase that would split time like a seam:
"In stillness, truth. In truth, change. Time, yield to will."
The world… paused.
Not entirely. Not physically.
But spiritually.
The edges of reality flattened into silver threads, like ripples waiting to break.
I felt the Chronolock form around me—six spiraling glyphs weaving a temporal shell just wide enough for the magic to rest inside.
No movement. No noise.
Time bent. Then stopped.
I exhaled.
And the world returned.
Later, in the study...
The fire was lit, and Maggie had poured something dark and herbal into two cups. I didn't sit. My body hummed with aftershocks—like I'd locked part of my soul in a glass box and left the key inside.
"It held," I said.
Don nodded, leaning forward. "For how long?"
"Three minutes. Perfect containment. Reality refused the deviation completely."
"And recoil?"
"None. No magical signature. No residue."
Maggie's lips parted in surprise. "You masked a temporal anchor that strong?"
I looked at her.
"I built it in the Void, Mother."
She smiled, but I saw the flicker in her gaze. Not pride. Not fear.
Respect.
We spent the next hour reviewing the secondary application—the loyalty-based failsafe encoded into the spell's imprint. Any follower who betrayed me would feel it—like their very timeline rejected their choice.
But again, that wasn't the real purpose.
I wasn't interested in forcing devotion.
Only ensuring consistency.
Control was not about fear. It was about certainty.
Beth arrived that afternoon from the New York sanctum.
Her hair had grown longer. She wore a charcoal cloak stitched with subtle protection sigils and carried an alchemy case strapped to her back.
She entered the study without waiting for permission, dropped her bag at my feet, and said, "You finished it."
"I did."
"I felt it in my bones."
"That would be the anchor harmonics," Don said, glancing over his glasses. "She's keyed to Bela's soul signature."
Beth turned to me. "It felt like… stillness. Like something huge held its breath."
"That's exactly what it was."
She grinned. "So. When do we steal the key to a magical empire?"
I didn't smile.
"Soon," I said. "But not yet."
Evening – Garden Discussion
That night, beneath the lanterns strung across the courtyard's blackcurrant trees, I walked with Don and Maggie, feet bare against the grass.
Maggie sipped wine. Don kept a blade tucked into his belt, as always.
"The spell to swap the key," Don said, "do you have the formula?"
"I built it last spring," I replied. "Spatial reversal, illusion layering, and dual existence threading. It'll take the real key from Henry mid-jump and replace it with a forged copy identical in weight and magical frequency."
"Abaddon won't notice?" Maggie asked.
"Not unless she tries to read it. And she won't. She's too focused on Henry."
"And the ingredients?"
I sighed.
"That's where it gets complicated."
I listed them.
Powdered feather from a phoenix who died naturally
Blood of a shifter with no kills
Dust from a sanctified Men of Letters journal
A sliver of mirror from the last intact time window
All rare. Some extinct.
"We'll need to pull in the Prague contacts," Maggie said. "And the Havana trader."
"Already working on it," Beth added.
I nodded. "Good. We'll gather while I reinforce the Chronolock over the next few months."
The night stretched long, and we talked softly—of timelines, triggers, legends of hidden sanctums across Asia, and the one forgotten Bunker beneath the sea.
This was what I lived for.
Not just magic.
But the architecture of forever.
And so, the Chronolock was sealed.
Not the end of a spell.
The beginning of something far more dangerous.