The pocket dimension shuddered as Aiden stepped through the rift first. The air tasted metallic and old, like blood left too long on steel.
Elizabeth followed close, her rifle slung but her hand never far from the grip. Catherine and Rael brought up the rear, faces tight.
"Stay tight," Aiden said. "This place eats time. One wrong step and we're living decades in minutes."
The walls flickered with half-formed echoes—ghost cities, burning fleets, silent crowds. The first loop hit Elizabeth hardest.
She stood on a cracked throne in what used to be the central spire of the Worldship. Twenty years older, hair streaked gray, voice raw from giving orders that no one wanted to hear anymore.
The empire had calcified under her rule. Every decision she made to keep it safe had turned into chains. Nomads starved on the edges. Ironseed officers shot deserters. Refugees whispered her name like a curse.
