In the depths of the Void, in a realm that existed between existence and nothingness, where the very concept of reality grew thin and fragile, something ancient stirred with renewed fury in its eternal prison.
The God of Time had been bound here for millennia, his consciousness scattered across temporal fragments like broken glass reflecting a shattered mirror.
His prison was not made of bars or chains, but of paradox itself. He existed in all moments and no moments, experiencing past and future simultaneously while being denied the present.
But now the stirring had become thrashing, the ancient awareness no longer content with passive observation of the temporal streams flowing past his prison.
He had felt it again.
This was something far more pronounced, far more impossible to dismiss as a phantom echo or a temporal distortion.
