"We move at dawn," Stocke commanded, his own voice steady and resolute.
He closed his eyes, and the world dissolved into the , the timeless void between eras. Lippti and Teo stood before him, their voices echoing with an ethereal, youthful clarity.
He would rewrite it, one timeline at a time, until the sand finally stopped falling.
Stocke looked at his hands. In one reality, he had watched his companions fall to the desert plague, their bodies turning to sand while the Alistel anthem played mockingly in the distance. He felt the phantom pain of a sword through his chest—a choice made poorly, a sacrifice made in vain.
He stepped through a shimmering gate, the scene shifting to the lush forests of Celestia. The atmosphere changed instantly. He heard the playful, rhythmic banter of the Satyros and Gafka’s deep, rumbling growl. Because he was hearing their original portrayals, every "Hmph" from Gafka felt like a mountain shifting, and every laugh from Eruca felt like a fragile hope being protected.
