The rift hummed like a living thing, its edges shimmering with broken pieces of worlds that should never have touched. Adams stood at the threshold, the cool wind tugging at his clothes, carrying whispers that sounded almost like old friends and enemies speaking at once. Behind him, the small group waited — Anderson with his steady presence, Mira gripping her star-forged arm, Elara clutching a worn tablet of divine runes, and Soren leaning on his dragon-bone cane like it was an extension of his stubborn will.
No grand speeches. No dramatic declarations. Just five people staring into the unknown because someone had to.
"Feels wrong," Soren muttered, spitting to the side. "Like the time we crossed the Blood Mire during the Oblivion mess. Air tasted of copper and regret."
