The world held its breath, but beneath the surface, three great engines of power began to turn, their gears grinding against each other in the dark.
I.
Deep beneath the Swiss Alps, in a chamber carved from living rock long before the first human nation was conceived, Lysander Ravencroft stood before a map of the world not drawn on parchment or pixel, but woven from strands of light and shadow on a pool of obsidian. The air was cold, smelling of stone dust and centuries. Other figures, cloaked and ancient, stood in a circle around him, their presences so old they seemed to absorb the faint light.
"The key stirs," murmured a being whose form shimmered like heat haze. "The Lock groans. The timeline diverges at San Moreno."
