Paris burned—but not with fire.
Above the Seine, the sky split like torn fabric. One moment, Notre-Dame stood whole; the next, its spire twisted into a spiraling obsidian horn that hummed with static. Tourists screamed as cobblestones turned to glass beneath their feet, then to water, then to nothing at all.
Reality wasn't breaking. It was layering.
In London, Big Ben chimed thirteen times—and each chime echoed in a different time. One ring showed the Blitz. Another, a future skyline choked in vines. A third, silence. Just wind through empty streets.
And in Berlin, the Brandenburg Gate flickered between eras—Nazi banners, Cold War barbed wire, neon-lit unity—before collapsing into a shimmering doorway that led nowhere and everywhere at once.
Lysander had opened the Veil.
Not just one rift. Hundreds. Across Europe. Across dimensions.
