Far above, inside the crystalline spires of the Dominion Palace, thunder rolled faintly. Rain tapped against the curved glass dome of the lab like a thousand impatient fingers. Inside, the air buzzed with tension — hot, electric, and restless.
Commander Navek Vyer stood at the edge of the Dominion's most restricted chamber, his expression unreadable, his stance motionless. In the center of the room loomed the machine — a towering arch of dark alloy etched with pulsing runes, humming with a dangerous energy. It resembled something ancient and forbidden, more creature than device, barely restrained by the scaffolding and chaos that surrounded it.
Sparks burst from the welders crouched at its base. Pipes hissed with hot vapor. Robotic arms and technicians moved in synchrony, each action rehearsed, each mistake a potential death sentence. The machine didn't tolerate failure. Over five hundred personnel worked in silence around it, all knowing their purpose, all aware they were playing with forces barely understood.
Two scientists stood before Commander Vyer. One was old, steady, but silent. The other, younger, trembled beneath the weight of what he was about to say.
"I asked a question," Vyer said, his voice like metal scraping against metal. "What happened during the first activation?"
The younger scientist swallowed hard. "Sir... the data showed an anomaly. Spatial and temporal."
The older man turned his head slightly, likely preparing to respond. But before he could utter a word, Vyer raised a hand. Without making contact, the man's chest collapsed inwards. Bones snapped. The sound was sickening. He crumpled without a cry, dead before his knees touched the ground.
The younger scientist gasped and stepped back, color draining from his face.
"Go on," Vyer ordered.
"For twenty seconds, the gate... it twisted the very fabric of space-time. A rift opened — but it didn't lead where we intended. It connected to another world. A parallel timeline."
"How far off?" "Roughly 150 years in the past. Technologically primitive. A divergent thread."
Vyer stepped forward, and the air itself seemed to grow heavier. "Did anything come through?"
The young man hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Possibly. The signal flared on both sides. We couldn't confirm it at the time, but a pulse escaped."
Vyer's stare could have frozen fire. "Why was this not reported?"
"The lead scientist — the one you just... he buried it. Feared it would shut the program down."
Vyer exhaled slowly, as if reining himself back. "How long until the gate is recalibrated?" "Two months. Minimum." "You have one. And from now on, you report to me. Directly." The young man nodded quickly.
Vyer turned away. The hum of the machine pulsed behind him like a second heartbeat. Lightning illuminated the chamber briefly, casting his long shadow against the dome.
He raised his eyes to the ceiling, not to observe the storm, but to chase a memory. For a moment, the harsh lights, the iron stench, and the unbearable tension disappeared. He was standing in sunlight. The room was small, but warm. The floor was polished wood, and the breeze through open windows stirred linen curtains.
The scent of jasmine and baked bread lingered in the air. She sat curled in a chair, her legs tucked beneath her, a book resting on her lap. Her hair spilled over her shoulders. Steam rose from the cup in her hands. She looked up as he entered.
Her smile was subtle. Not the dramatic, rehearsed kind he'd seen at court. This was quiet. Real. Her eyes crinkled just a little.
"Good morning, Navek," she had said, her voice low, velvet-soft. It wasn't a greeting. It was an embrace made of words.
He remembered the tray she'd set out — toast, orange marmalade, coffee. The way her fingers brushed his when she handed him the cup. The silence between them wasn't heavy like the one in the lab.
It was gentle. Peaceful. Full. He had buried that memory for years, sealed it beneath layers of steel, discipline, and duty. But it rose now, unwanted and unwelcome, cracking through his walls like a sprout through concrete.
For a brief moment, the pain was sharp. Then he shut it away. Folded it into himself. One more weakness, turned to stone.
Four Months Earlier The chamber had erupted into chaos. The first activation had begun.
The gate glowed deep red, then searing white. The room shook. Monitors exploded. Sparks danced like fireflies gone mad. Technicians screamed orders. Energy spiraled upward into a howling vortex.
The rift opened. Not wide — just a crack. But wide enough. A single pulse shot through, arcing into the sky, disappearing beyond the palace's reach.
Twenty-five kilometers away, in a quiet forest where rusted tracks still crossed ancient ground, a metro train blinked into existence. There was no sound before it appeared. One moment the air was still. The next — metal screamed as the train slammed into place. Steel ground against earth. Sparks lit the trees. The front car twisted, derailed.
Glass shattered. Doors blew outward. Debris scattered. Inside the wreckage — teenagers. Startled. Bruised. Alive. They didn't understand what had happened. Their uniforms were wrong. Their language familiar, but tinted with confusion.
They weren't from this time. Weren't from this world. And the Dominion never knew. No witnesses survived. No signal was traced. But something had slipped through. The timeline was no longer untouched. The game had changed — and no one had noticed.