The profound, suffocating stillness of the temporal stasis field pressed in on Andrew. Every breath felt like forcing air through treacle, every movement a deliberate act of will against an unyielding, invisible pressure.
The frozen water droplets, the suspended dust motes, the petrified expressions on what appeared to be ancient, monstrous figures – all confirmed the absolute cessation of time. Only Andrew, Marrow, and their retinue of shadows seemed capable of motion, their very existence a defiance of this temporal tomb.
Andrew's legs ached with the constant, unseen resistance. His mind, too, felt stretched thin, as if fighting to keep his own internal clock ticking in a world where the hands of the universe had stopped. The Chrono-Shard in his pocket pulsed with a faint, steady cold, a small anchor of tangible reality in this surreal landscape.
