The shift between alternate lives was not a smooth fading of shadows. It was a painful nerve rupture.
“Rotate!” Ren Vale commanded, his voice cracking with the strain of holding the universe together with his own nerves.
Through the heavy iron shackle-key planted in the bedrock between his boots, Ren grounded his intent. In his inner eye, the silver glass of the Speculum of Forfeited Paths shifted. The three physical silhouettes holding the defensive line—Lord Ren, Unit Ren, and the Warden—locked their stances for four critical seconds, freezing their moving driving force to create a protective hall through the throngs of time abominations.
One second.
Unit Ren fired his backup purge valve, blinding the front line of cultists with a wall of white steam.
Two seconds.
Lord Ren drove his two-handed broadsword into the bronze floor, channeling a bone-shaking wave of the Geas of Ash that knocked twelve mirror-masked fanatics onto their backs.
Three seconds.
