The text message from Guru Jai was a cold splash of reality. As expected. The Weaver works quickly. The Vanara's Legacy is strong, but vulnerable. We must go. Prepare yourself, Dr. Thorne. The threads of the Weave are about to become far more tangled.
Aris stared at the words, the glowing screen a stark contrast to the dim, smoky ambiance of the Spanish café. The news report on the TV, still droning on about the "revolutionary" Russian discovery, seemed to mock him. The Chronos Collective wasn't just subtly interfering; they were actively seizing control of the narrative, rewriting history in real-time. This wasn't a scholarly debate; it was a war for truth, fought on a global stage.
He paid for his coffee, the bitter taste a fitting counterpoint to the rising panic in his gut. He had to move, and fast. But how? The Collective had isolated him, cutting off contact with Lena, messing with his electronics. He was a lone thread, vulnerable and exposed.
He found a quiet corner in his motel room and called Jai again. "How do we 'go,' Jai? My contacts are cut off. My digital footprint is probably flagged. I can't just book a flight to Russia without raising every alarm bell."
"The Collective controls many pathways, Dr. Thorne, but not all," Jai replied, his voice calm, a steady anchor in Aris's rising storm. "There are older ways. Analog. Obscure. I have made arrangements. A flight leaves from a small, private airfield outside Seville in six hours. No manifests, no digital trails. Just a single passenger."
Aris blinked. "A private jet? Who are you, Jai?"
"A Chronos Keeper, like yourself, Dr. Thorne. One who has walked these paths for many cycles. There are allies, hidden in plain sight, who understand the true nature of the Weave. They provide passage when the threads become too tangled." Jai paused. "Pack light. Bring only what is essential. And trust the process. The Collective's reach is vast, but their methods are often predictable. They seek to control, not always to destroy, especially a nascent Keeper like yourself. Yet, caution is paramount."
Six hours. It was barely enough time to retrieve his research notes, grab a change of clothes, and make the drive to Seville. The subtle interference continued: his car's engine sputtered intermittently, the GPS screen froze on a blank map, and the temporal ripples intensified. The motel room shimmered, briefly replaced by a glimpse of a snow-covered landscape, ancient figures wrapped in furs moving through a blizzard. He shook his head, forcing the present back into focus. He had to concentrate. Survival depended on it.
The private airfield was little more than a strip of tarmac carved out of a sprawling olive grove. A sleek, black jet sat waiting, its engines a low hum in the pre-dawn silence. A single, silent pilot, his face obscured by the darkness and a pair of reflective sunglasses, met him at the gangway. No questions, no pleasantries. Just a nod towards the cabin.
Inside, the jet was surprisingly spartan, yet comfortable. Aris strapped himself into a leather seat, the hum of the engines a new, unsettling lullaby. As the plane ascended, leaving the twinkling lights of Spain behind, he felt a profound sense of isolation. He was truly alone now, hurtling across continents towards a new, unknown Chronos Node, with only Jai's cryptic guidance and his own terrifying new abilities for company.
The flight was long, punctuated by brief, unsettling periods of silence from the cockpit. Aris tried to sleep, but his mind raced. He pulled out his laptop, now miraculously functioning, and reviewed the news reports on the Ural Mountains discovery. The historian from the Collective, a Dr. Alistair Finch, was everywhere, his calm, authoritative voice weaving a compelling narrative. Finch spoke of a "unified global civilization" that predated all known history, a technologically advanced culture that had seeded knowledge across the world. He presented the simian-like figures as "proto-human deities" or "ancient engineers," carefully sidestepping any direct mythological connections, instead framing them as scientific evidence of a lost, superior race.
It was insidious. Finch wasn't denying the discoveries; he was recontextualizing them, fitting them into a narrative that likely served The Weaver's "correction protocol." If humanity believed in a single, superior, ancient race that had guided them, it would be easier to accept a new, guiding hand in the future. The Collective wasn't just hiding the truth; they were twisting it, weaponizing it.
The temporal ripples intensified as they flew further east, crossing vast swathes of land. Aris saw flashes of ancient forests, heard the distant cries of prehistoric animals, felt the biting cold of ice ages. He was flying over millennia, sensing the vastness of the Chronos Weave. It was overwhelming, disorienting, but he forced himself to focus, to try and discern patterns, to understand the flow of time beneath him.
After what felt like an eternity, the pilot finally announced their descent. "Approaching destination. Estimated landing in twenty minutes."
The landscape below transformed. The green fields of Europe gave way to vast, sprawling taiga forests, then to the imposing, snow-dusted peaks of the Ural Mountains. This was a land of ancient power, of raw, untamed wilderness. He could feel the resonance even from the air, a deep, resonant hum emanating from the earth below.
The jet landed on a surprisingly well-maintained, but isolated, airstrip carved out of a clearing deep within the mountains. The air was crisp, bitingly cold, and carried the scent of pine and ice. A sturdy, all-terrain vehicle waited at the edge of the strip, its engine idling. Another silent driver, bundled in thick winter gear, nodded towards the passenger seat.
The drive was even more arduous than the flight. The vehicle navigated treacherous, unpaved roads, climbing higher and higher into the mountains. The vastness of the landscape was humbling, the ancient forests stretching endlessly, silent witnesses to countless millennia. Aris felt the temporal ripples here more strongly than ever before. He saw fleeting glimpses of massive, hairy figures moving through the snow-laden trees, heard their guttural calls, felt their immense strength and their connection to the very earth. The Vanara's Legacy. It was here, alive in the echoes.
After an hour of bone-jarring travel, they reached a hidden valley, nestled between towering, snow-capped peaks. In the center of the valley, partially obscured by a recent snowfall, stood a cluster of colossal megaliths. They were unlike anything Aris had ever seen – not merely stones, but colossal, rough-hewn pillars, some reaching dozens of meters into the sky, their surfaces etched with swirling patterns that seemed to shift and writhe in the dim light. They radiated a palpable, raw power that made the Chronos Compass in Aris's pocket vibrate violently. This was the next Chronos Node.
But it wasn't pristine. Around the megaliths, a temporary research camp had been erected. Tents, scientific equipment, and the faint glow of portable lights marred the ancient landscape. Figures moved between the structures, bundled in heavy coats. The Collective was here. And they were already at work.
As the vehicle approached the camp, Aris saw a large, reinforced perimeter fence, guarded by armed men in dark, tactical gear. This wasn't a typical archaeological dig. This was a military operation.
The vehicle stopped at a checkpoint. The driver exchanged a few terse words in Russian with a guard, who then waved them through. Aris realized he wasn't being smuggled in to observe; he was being delivered into the heart of the Collective's operation.
His driver pulled up to a large, heated tent that served as a central command post. As Aris stepped out, the biting cold hit him, but it was nothing compared to the chill that ran down his spine. The air here thrummed with a different kind of energy than the Spanish cave – a colder, more calculating resonance.
A figure emerged from the tent. Tall, impeccably dressed even in the harsh environment, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a calm, almost unnervingly composed demeanor. It was Dr. Alistair Finch, the historian from the news report. He extended a hand, a polite, almost welcoming smile on his face.
"Dr. Thorne, I presume?" Finch's voice was smooth, cultured, exactly as it had sounded on TV. "Welcome to our little expedition. We've been expecting you."
Aris felt a jolt. Expecting him? Jai had said the Collective monitored the Weave, but this was beyond mere monitoring. This was a direct invitation, a trap he had willingly walked into. His mind raced, trying to understand. Had Jai known this would happen? Was this part of the plan?
"My name is Alistair Finch," the historian continued, his smile widening, revealing a predatory glint in his eyes. "And I believe we have much to discuss about the true history of this planet. And your... unique talents, Dr. Thorne. The Weaver has been very interested in your recent activities."
Aris forced himself to meet Finch's gaze, a cold defiance hardening his own. He was in the lion's den. But he was also at the heart of the next Chronos Node, the Vanara's Legacy. He had to find the truth here, before the Collective twisted it beyond recognition. The threads of the Weave were indeed tangled, and he was now caught directly in the Collective's web. The hunt was no longer just on; it was a confrontation.