Time is one of the first things a people claim for themselves. Every culture in this world measures it differently, shaping calendars around what they believe matters most. Some follow the moons. Others watch the stars. Others count the rise and fall of rivers. Each system makes sense within its own horizon, yet none agree. Together they form a mosaic of rhythms that grind and slip against one another, layering history the way I describe in Ages of Faith.

Those differences reveal what each people values. A nation that counts by the flood remembers survival. A faith that follows the stars believes in destiny. A city that builds its months around trade winds sees profit as divine order. When their calendars align, they find harmony. When they do not, they argue or adapt. Time itself becomes a conversation, an ongoing negotiation of meaning.

I am most interested in what happens between those systems. A wedding that marks renewal in one calendar might fall on a day of mourning in another. Those frictions give the world its pulse. They turn time into texture, something felt as much as measured.

When I lay the calendars together I start to see patterns. Shared solstices appear. Rival harvests echo across continents. Certain alignments gather weight until they seem to bend events toward them. These moments shape the story’s turning points. Time here is never neutral. It follows belief, and belief is what keeps the world moving, a fact woven into the constellated borders in Mortum Caelum.