Calm Before the Storm

LOCATION: Somewhere in the divide

The cool, almost unnatural stillness of the divide between universes echoed with an eerie silence. The Rift Maker stood at the edge of the vast expanse, his skeletal fingers dancing through the air as he manipulated the fabric of reality. Beneath the starlit void, a series of rifts opened, bleeding across a universe unknown.

At the heart of this stillness stood Xytheron, his expression as unreadable as the swirling voids around him. A tall, imposing figure in black armor, his very presence seemed to distort the space around him, bending light and shadow.

Rift Maker's trembling form, smaller in stature, hunched slightly, his hood casting a shadow over his face. His movements were nervous, quick glances to Xytheron as he tried to keep his composure.

"Are we ready?" Rift Maker asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, unsure if the answer was something Xytheron would even acknowledge.

Xytheron's voice was calm, almost patient, but carrying a weight of foreboding. "You know well enough, Rift Maker, that the city is at its most vulnerable during the Zenith Games. With their attention diverted, it is the perfect moment for us to strike if only you can gather your courage."

Rift Maker's hands twitched, pulling at the very threads of the reality that bent and shifted beneath them. He took a deep breath, trying to steady the unease swirling within him. "But the city… it's protected. They'll have their defenses. Surely, this is a bad idea?"

A flicker of dark amusement crossed Xytheron's lips, his eyes narrowing as they flicked over the Rift Maker. "What you fear is not the city's strength, but its distractions. Their focus will be split celebrations, competitions, and the endless charades that are the Zenith Games. During this time, they are weakest. They will not see what is coming until it is too late."

Rift Maker's voice shook slightly. "But the Games... We're so close. I can feel it, Xytheron. If I if I am too late…" His words faltered, the burden of his responsibility growing heavier.

"You will not be late. You mustn't." Xytheron's tone shifted, becoming colder, sharper. "The rifts you will create will tear open the fabric of the city. But you are not the one who will destroy it, Rift Maker. You are merely the tool. Do you understand?"

Rift Maker nodded, though a deep knot of doubt gnawed at him. His task seemed insurmountable, and yet there was no turning back now. "Yes. But… what about the other one? The one you've kept hidden? Are we ready for that?"

Xytheron paused, his gaze intensifying, as though he were weighing Rift Maker's worth. "The war has already begun, whether you feel it or not. What comes after the Zenith Games will be beyond anything Evolto City can prepare for. And as for 'the other one' that is not your concern, Rift Maker. Just do your part."

The Rift Maker's brow furrowed, but he did not question further. Xytheron had always been cryptic with him, pulling him deeper into his web of schemes. For all the power he had gained by serving Xytheron, Rift Maker still couldn't shake the feeling that he was being used.

Xytheron's next words cut through the tension like a blade. "The true war is not with the city itself, Rift Maker. The true war is against a force older than any of us. A force that will rise in the wake of the Games. And that force will demand everything."

Rift Maker felt a chill crawl up his spine, though he knew the warmth of Xytheron's presence should have quelled the fear. Still, something gnawed at him a feeling he couldn't shake, an ominous sense that the battle they were about to fight was not the one that would define them.

"What... what do you mean?" Rift Maker asked hesitantly, though he already feared the answer.

A dark smirk tugged at Xytheron's lips, a look of near satisfaction crossing his features. "The true enemy is not me, nor even the city. The true enemy is something far greater a being who serves me, but whose power is beyond even my understanding. And once they emerge from the shadows, not even the Zenith Games will matter."

Rift Maker took a step back, his eyes wide with horror. "A... an ally?" he whispered, his voice trembling with uncertainty.

Xytheron's gaze deepened, cold and calculating. "An ally, yes. But not one who will be bound by our plans. Not one who seeks power through any means but their own. And they will be the final test for Evolto City."

Rift Maker's heart pounded. He couldn't help but feel the weight of the impending war crash down on him. He had known something larger was brewing, but to hear it confirmed from Xytheron himself shook him to his core.

The horizon began to shift, the rifts in space opening wider. The game was set. 28 days only 28 days until the world as they knew it would be forever changed.

LOCATION:Zalthorion's office

Zalthorion sat in the heart of his command center, the towering spires of Evolto City visible from the panoramic windows, their glowing lights cutting through the midnight mist. His eyes, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light, scanned the array of holo-screens around him. The hum of his personal network filled the air a gentle, ever-present reminder of his meticulous watch over everything in his city.

His hand rested on the table as he waited for the reports to come through.

A soft chime broke the silence, and a holographic screen flickered to life in front of him. Virdarath's familiar face appeared, his expression ever-shifting between playful and coldly calculating. The chaos within the being was always present, but today it was more serious than usual.

"Zalthorion," Virdarath's voice echoed, his tone carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "The Rift activity... it's getting worse. Everywhere. From the outskirts of the Divide to the far reaches of the sectors, rifts are opening faster than we can track them. They're more unstable than ever, and something's stirring on the other side."

Zalthorion's eyes narrowed, his fingers curling into a fist as the unsettling information sank in. Rift activity had always been a concern, but this… this was a pattern, a deliberate escalation. The rifts weren't just appearing they were multiplying.

"Keep monitoring the rifts, Virdarath," Zalthorion said, his voice commanding, yet tinged with a quiet concern. "We can't afford any surprises. I want every anomaly tracked and reported to me immediately. And make sure the Rift Maker isn't left unchecked."

Virdarath's smirk flickered, his eyes flashing with mischief. "Always, Zalthorion. But it seems that our friend, the Rift Maker, has more on his hands than he knows."

Zalthorion didn't respond immediately, instead turning to another screen where a much more precise set of reports began flooding in. Dr. Wagner's face materialized, his somber expression a stark contrast to Virdarath's playful one. The scientist's lab coat billowed faintly in the simulated wind that perpetually surrounded his hologram, his eyes glowing with the intensity of someone who thrived under pressure.

"Zalthorion," Dr. Wagner began, his voice calm but laced with a certain sharpness. "The Yaeger and Titan production lines are advancing at full speed. We're ahead of schedule almost ready to deploy the next batch. The new power sources are performing well, and the Blackmore Reactors are proving to be more stable than expected, despite the increased output. The threat, whatever it may be, is being met with more than enough firepower."

Zalthorion nodded slowly. "And the orbital satellites?"

"We've primed all of them, as per your instructions," Dr. Wagner continued. "The Celestium fleet is in position and on high alert. If the situation escalates, the satellites are ready to deploy their defense measures, capable of eliminating any large-scale threats from above. We've also enhanced security protocols across the board. No one is slipping through our radar."

Zalthorion's eyes flickered with a subtle glint of approval. "Good. But I need more than just weapons. The city's defense is about more than firepower it's about speed and precision. What of the nano-robot swarm?"

Dr. Wagner's lips quirked, a rare moment of pride showing through the scientist's usually stoic demeanor. "We've integrated the swarm into several of the newly enhanced Yaegers. The 'Alpha-991' and 'Ragnarok-777' units are receiving the full upgrades, along with a new autonomous repair function for their critical systems. They'll be able to deploy the swarm in real-time repair, sabotage, or reinforce as needed."

Zalthorion allowed a slight smile to cross his face. "Excellent. The swarm should be more than capable of giving us a tactical advantage. And the new Jaegers?"

Dr. Wagner's eyes gleamed as he brought up a new set of schematics. "We've refined their core capabilities. The Titan-class units are more robust, with reinforced armor plating and integrated combat systems. I've also adjusted their neural synchronization interface to ensure they respond faster to commands in high-pressure situations. They'll be a major asset against anything that tries to breach our defenses."

Zalthorion leaned forward, his fingers steepled in thought. "All these preparations… I sense something more is on the horizon. This will not be the battle we expect. We must be ready for the unanticipated."

A low hum from the command center's speakers interrupted the momentary pause. Zalthorion's gaze snapped to the center screen as another figure's face appeared, his expression solemn and distant.

A low chime interrupted the silence again, and the center screen blinked with a new hologram forming this time, a figure clad in shimmering robes laced with fractal patterns of clockwork designs. His name pulsed beneath the feed: Councilor Elion Vastreach, Overseer of the Temporal Division and Chronostone Production.

Elion's voice came through steady, though a strain sat behind it. "Zalthorion, forgive the late report but I thought it best you hear this directly. We're experiencing disruptions in Chronostone synthesis. Production has dropped by twenty-three percent in the last three cycles."

Zalthorion's gaze sharpened. "Cause?"

Elion sighed, casting a glance to something beyond his screen complex temporal engines pulsing in uneven rhythms. "It's the Time Wells. They're destabilizing. Pockets of distorted chronology are forming around the extraction sites. Moments are looping, collapsing, or refusing to flow altogether. It's not natural interference something is actively warping the flow of time at the source."

Virdarath leaned in from his own feed, his voice wry. "Sounds like someone's playing with a broken watch."

Zalthorion ignored the quip, his voice calm but firm. "Any signs of intrusion?"

Elion nodded gravely. "We've detected temporal anomalies shaped like signatures, but they shift. As if someone or something is masking their identity with fractured timelines. They could be using Chrono-Leeches, or worse, a fragment of the Old Clockmind."

Zalthorion closed his eyes for a breath. The Old Clockmind an ancient entity of paradox and recursive thought had been sealed long ago.

"Do what you can to contain the anomalies," he ordered. "Divert any untainted Chronostones to the Titan units. If time is breaking around us, we'll need every second reinforced."

Elion bowed his head. "Understood, Commander. I will keep you informed."

As the screen faded, Zalthorion's mind began to churn. Rift activity, temporal sabotage, increased need for force deployment it wasn't chaos. It was orchestration. A melody of war, played by unseen hands.

He stood, his cloak flowing like liquid void. The city below shimmered with light and defiance.

"Begin Phase Thalos," he said, his voice echoing across the command center.

Far from Evolto City, in a place where stars bent in reverence and time flowed sideways, the Council of the Sector Masters gathered in full.

Each Master sat upon their throne forged from their domain: The Painter, robe stained with living pigment; The Singer, whose voice shaped the air around her into color and melody; The Writer, whose quill scratched upon an endless scroll suspended in air; and a dozen more whose forms defied mortal imagination. And at the center, the largest and quietest seat remained empty Zalthorion's.

The air was tense.

"The Rifts grow bold," said The Painter, swirling a brush through space, revealing a floating canvas of recent anomalies. "Xytheron moves with purpose. And his creature, the Rift Maker... it builds toward something."

The Writer nodded grimly, his quill freezing mid-word. "And now Zalthorion has enacted Phase Thalos. He knows this is not coincidence. The Zenith Games are the perfect cover for an invasion."

Murmurs echoed. For once, even The Singer's usual melodies were subdued.

Then, one of the elder Sector Masters a crystalline being known only as Glass-Truth, who oversaw the Sector of Law spoke:

"Do we inform the Destroyers?"

The chamber shifted. The words were seismic.

"No," barked Iron Verse, Master of the War Sector, slamming his gauntlet on the stone. "Last time we reached out, they scattered. Went to ground. Hid. If they flee again, we lose every possible deterrent we have left."

"And if we don't tell them," countered The Weaver, her voice a web of a thousand simultaneous threads, "they will come anyway unbound and uncontrolled. You forget: the Destroyers do not answer to us. They serve, yes, but not by command. Only by trust."

"They serve the balance," said The Singer, finally speaking, her voice harmonizing across the council floor. "Even when that balance is ugly."

The debate spiraled. Sector Masters bickered not with anger, but desperation. Fear. The multiverse was fraying, not at the edges, but at the seams. And no one knew if this war was orchestrated by Xytheron… or by something deeper.

Then, a voice emerged from the shadows of the hall, calm and slow, but utterly commanding.

"Zalthorion has been speaking with the Destroyers," came the voice of The Watcher, who rarely left the depths of the Divide. His eyes held the reflections of infinite timelines. "He has not abandoned peace. He seeks to bring them back into light. But even he admits… something is coming that even the Destroyers fear."

A hush followed.

"Then what are we to do?" asked The Painter quietly.

"We wait," The Writer answered after a long moment. "We watch. And if the line breaks… we stand together. Not just as Sector Masters, but as what we were before guardians of the First Flame."

He dipped his quill again, and wrote five words across the fabric of reality:

Prepare the Warden Keys.

All debate ceased.

Each Sector Master nodded. The Destroyers would remain unaware for now. But if the Warden Keys were to be used… even the gods would tremble.

As the Sector Masters began to vanish one by one into their realms, The Watcher remained behind, staring into the spiraling rift of timelines only he could see.

He whispered to no one.

"The Warden Keys... were never meant to be used again."

Behind him, unnoticed by all, a small fracture formed in the Council's sacred chamber wall something that should be impossible. From within the crack, a whisper escaped, not a sound, but a presence.

Watching.

Waiting.

Something that even the Destroyers had once sealed away.