They landed in a desolate version of their town, the air thick with ash and the sky a bruised violet. Crumbled buildings loomed like tombstones, their Victorian home reduced to rubble. Tylor clutched Amaira, her wide eyes scanning the ruins. Kayla's face paled, her dreams now reality. "This is it," she whispered, her voice trembling.
A distant hum grew louder—a drone, its red eye scanning the streets. "Hide!" Tylor hissed, pulling them behind a shattered wall. The drone passed, broadcasting a cold voice: "Trespassers will be detained by order of the Chronarch." Tylor's blood ran cold. The journal mentioned no Chronarch, but the name felt like a weight in his chest.
They crept through the wasteland, finding a makeshift camp of survivors, their faces gaunt with fear. A woman, her eyes hollow, spoke of the Chronarch—a tyrant who controlled time, erasing dissenters with a device like their machine. "He sees every ripple," she warned, glancing at Tylor. "You're not supposed to be here."
Amaira clutched Tylor's hand, her voice small. "Is this our fault?" Tylor didn't answer, but the guilt he'd buried resurfaced. Kayla's hand found his, her touch grounding. "We'll fix this," she said, but her eyes held a flicker of doubt, as if the violet sky stirred something within her.