The battlefield was chaos forged into rhythm—reality itself warping with each clash of steel, spell, and will. Time cracked. Space folded. The sky rippled like shattered glass, reflecting moments from other realities, glimpses of lives not lived, futures that would never happen.
Valerian's blade carved through the air with impossible precision, slicing into the first of the Others. The creature let out a shriek that splintered the sky like thunder cracking through porcelain. Its blood—if it could be called that—was a swirling mess of time-threads and shattered dimensions. The moment the blade touched it, the entity convulsed, then dissolved into light. But not before the wound pulsed once—then exploded into a scream of timelines collapsing.
