As they stepped into the portal, chaos swallowed them whole.
It should have been moving.
The sky—shifting, breathing, stretching toward futures yet to come. The paths—woven from threads of time, guiding all things forward. The air—heavy with whispers, carrying echoes of moments not yet lived.
But now—
Time's realm was not empty, but it was wrong.
Above them, the sky refused to commit to a single state of existence.
One moment, it shimmered with gold—not sunlight, but something deeper, something rich with potential, as if dawn were stretching into infinity. But before Ezra could process its color, it bled outward, leaking into deep purples and twisting hues of blue, shifting in ways that felt unnatural. The sky should have been fluid, shifting between past, present, and future without hesitation. Instead, it flickered—uncertain, broken, caught between time it could no longer control. Every time Ezra blinked, it was different.
Lior felt it more than saw it. He exhaled sharply, gripping his wrist, grounding himself against the unease settling in his bones. "It shouldn't be like this," he murmured.
Ezra didn't answer.
Because nothing should be like this.
There was no true ground—only pathways, woven from threads of time itself, stretching infinitely in all directions.
Or rather—there had been.
Now, the threads were unraveling, their once-fluid structure fraying at the edges, separating in ways that should never happen. The paths beneath their feet flickered—there one second, gone the next, as if existence itself were hesitating.
Ezra could step forward without consequence. Death was constant.
But Lior?
Lior wavered when the ground shuddered.
Because Life was meant to move forward.
And without Time, there was nowhere to go.
Lior inhaled—but it felt wrong. The air carried no breeze, no temperature, no movement. And yet—it carried whispers. Not voices. Not people. Not something alive.
But moments.
The echoes of conversations long past, the hum of history threading itself through the space they stood in. If he focused hard enough, he could catch fragments—a name spoken in the past, a decision made in the future, a word that had not yet been uttered.
They were everywhere, these lingering pieces of time.
But Time wasn't here to hold them together anymore.
"Ezra," Lior whispered, blinking hard against the whispers pressing into his skull. Ezra heard it too, but he did not react. Because Time was not silent—even in its absence.
And something else was listening.
Ezra took another step forward—more forceful, more deliberate, more demanding of something to respond.
The realm shuddered.
Not a tremor. Not a shift. But something deeper, something broken, something watching.
The sky flickered too sharply, hues twisting in ways that made no sense—gold splitting into violet, indigo cracking apart, threads separating at impossible angles. The ground wavered, flickering between existing and disappearing beneath Lior's feet.
And then—they felt it.
Not Time.
Not silence.
But something waiting.
Ezra stiffened.
Lior inhaled sharply.
The whispers faded.
And between the fractured threads of a reality that was meant to stay intact, something rose.
***
Lior gritted his teeth, trying to steady himself, but it was impossible—the entire realm fought against his presence, against the balance he needed to exist. He stumbled, breath hitching as the floor beneath them wavered. "Ezra—"
Ezra's arm shot out, catching him instinctively. "Keep moving," he snapped, irritation sharp, but his grip did not loosen.
Lior nodded, swallowing hard, pressing forward. But the longer they remained, the heavier the realm pressed against him. He felt it in his bones—the weight of something unnatural, something pulling against his very essence.
He knew why.
Life did not belong here.
Ezra was made for decay, for endings, for stillness. The chaos unsettled him, but it did not weaken him. Lior, however, thrived on balance, on rhythm, on the seamless passage of time. Without it, his steps wavered, his vision blurred—his own existence feeling untethered.
Ezra noticed.
He wouldn't admit it—not to Lior, not to himself—but he felt the shift in Lior's steps, the way his movements lost their usual grace. Lior wasn't weak. Ezra knew that. But here, in this fractured world, where time had unraveled, Life was vulnerable.
It irritated him.
Not because Lior was slowing them down. Not because his presence was fragile.
But because Ezra didn't like the way it made him feel.
Lior stumbled again, and Ezra reacted before he could think, catching him fully this time—pulling him against his side, one arm locking around his waist. "Pathetic," Ezra muttered, but his grip was too firm, too steady, and Lior felt the truth in it. He laughed, breathless but genuine. "And yet, you didn't let me fall."
Ezra scowled. He should have let him fall. Should have let him find his own way through the chaos, should have kept his distance. But the thought of Lior collapsing, of the chaos swallowing him whole, of Life being lost in this broken place—
Ezra shifted, tightening his hold, ignoring the way his thoughts pressed against his ribs. "I don't have time for you to collapse," he muttered, voice gruff, careful to keep it sharp.
Lior huffed softly, allowing himself to lean into Ezra's strength, just for now.