The first sign was the temperature.
It wasn't abrupt. No, it slithered in as a subtle ripple in the air—a barely perceptible shift that, to most, would be written off as nothing more than an errant breeze or a trick of the mind. A momentary glitch in the senses. But Erasmus was not like most.
He stood in the vast, hollowed heart of the church, his fingers tracing an absent pattern along the cold, polished wood of the offering chest. The touch was automatic, a ritual more than a conscious act. Wood, smooth, cool—familiar. Unyielding. But the air, the air was something else. The warmth that should have clung to this place—this sanctuary—began to recede, not violently, not suddenly, but with an eerie deliberation. It seeped away, like life draining from a body, slow and sure. A creeping absence, a subtle hollowing.
Outside the great stone pillars, the faithful knelt in prayer, their voices rising in a collective murmur. The rhythmic cadence of their chant was an exercise in blind devotion, each word slipping from their lips like a prayer repeated too many times to retain any true meaning. Routine. Predictable. Comforting in its monotony.
But Erasmus was never comfortable. Not with the world, and certainly not with the way it shifted beneath his feet.
He exhaled, slow and measured, letting the stillness stretch. His senses prickled. The priests around him began to stir, unease settling into their bones.
One of the younger priests, the green one with too much zeal, shivered visibly. "Is it… colder than before?"
A second, older priest, brow furrowed in suspicion, spoke out, his voice laced with uncertainty. "Strange… the doors are shut. Where is this draft coming from?"
Erasmus didn't answer. There was no draft. No breeze. No reason for the cold. This wasn't a natural chill—it was a presence. An absence, pressing in from beyond the material world, suffusing the very air with its weight.
His senses, honed to an acute sharpness, captured more than just the cold.
The sunlight.
It had always been there—a constant pressure against the stone, lending weight to the air. A comfort. But now? Now it flickered, faint and wavering, like a dying candle in the breeze. Not the gentle dimming of evening. This was something more sinister. Something unnatural.
Erasmus tilted his head slightly, casting his gaze across the room, then turned toward the nearest priest. "What time is it?"
The priest, a middle-aged man with graying hair, responded without hesitation. "A little past midday."
Midday.
But the sun—where had it gone?
A flicker of something deeper, darker, stirred within him. His fingers tapped against the offering chest again, the sound a sharp staccato against the thickening silence. Something was unfolding. Something greater than nature. He could feel it, a presence stirring just beneath the surface of reality.
And it—whatever it was—offered him something.
Opportunity.
The murmurs among the priests began to swell, becoming more frantic. Fear was taking root, spreading like an infection.
Good.
Fear was malleable. And when people were afraid, they would clutch to anything, no matter how fragile, just to stop the tremors within.
Erasmus stepped forward, deliberately. The instant he moved, the priests' eyes snapped to him, their attention riveted by something they couldn't see, couldn't understand—something within him that radiated certainty, a calmness amidst their rising storm.
"This is not punishment," he said, his voice even and smooth, as though he were teaching a child a simple truth. "This is a test."
The effect was instantaneous. The air seemed to still, if only for a heartbeat. Panic, raw and wild, coagulated into something far more controlled. They were still afraid, yes, but now they sought him. They were desperate to hold onto the fraying edges of their world, and Erasmus would be their anchor.
"A… test?" one of the younger priests repeated, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking the words would summon the enormity of what they meant.
"Yes," Erasmus affirmed, letting the silence fall between them, thickening with anticipation. He could almost taste their desperation. "This is not abandonment. It is a trial. A challenge to prove our faith."
The words hung in the air like a fragile thread, each one tugging at the priests' minds, twisting their thoughts.
A soft exhalation broke the stillness, as though someone had been holding their breath. Another whispered, barely audible: "Then… we must endure."
Erasmus's lips barely moved, but his voice took on a deeper resonance. "And how do we prove our faith?"
The room stilled. The priests hesitated, each one searching the faces of the others, silently weighing their options.
A soft voice, trembling with uncertainty, answered: "Through offering."
"Indeed." Erasmus nodded slowly, as if this truth was as self-evident as the sun rising in the east. "Tribute is the greatest display of devotion. Through sacrifice, we show our loyalty."
The room shifted, some of the priests bowing their heads, others slowly approaching the offering chest. They fumbled, reaching for trinkets, jewels, anything of value they could part with in the name of this trial.
Erasmus did not smile. He didn't need to. But internally, a cold satisfaction coiled within him, tightening with each moment. This was perfect.
Yet, beneath the surface of his composed demeanor, his mind was already racing.
The anomaly, the strange disturbance, had not dissipated.
This—this "test" was nothing more than a game. A way to observe, to watch how the faithful would react without arousing suspicion.
But the deeper question gnawed at him.
What did it mean?
—
Hours passed.
The cold grew deeper, more oppressive, seeping into every corner of the church, tightening its grip on the air. It was no longer a subtle discomfort. Now it was something suffocating, weighing on his skin as though reality itself were bending.
And then—without warning—it happened.
A sudden pull.
His breath caught in his chest, the world lurching sideways, as though the very fabric of his perception had been torn. A crack in reality—a rupture.
The grand hall, the priests, their devotions… it all warped before his eyes. The walls stretched and twisted. The air itself warped, like a mirror buckling under unseen pressure.
Then—darkness.
Silence.
The vision snapped away, leaving Erasmus standing alone in the chamber, heart steady, pulse unbroken. The moment hung in the air, vibrating with a strange energy.
It was real.
A glimpse of the future. Of what was to come.
A fractured thread of time had revealed itself to him.
Could he change it? Or was he merely a spectator in a world beyond his reach?
His fingers flexed, curling slightly. The possibilities were vast—more than he could have imagined. But to test it… he would need to push further.
—
Back in his chambers, alone, Erasmus focused.
The flickering candle cast long shadows against the stone walls, but Erasmus paid it no mind. He steadied his breathing, aligning his thoughts, pushing the world out of his mind until only the vision remained.
The first had come unbidden. Now, he would summon it.
Minutes stretched, dragging against his skin. Then, he pushed. Focused.
The air groaned. A subtle, unnatural noise—like something ancient shifting, moving beyond the confines of perception.
A pulse.
And then, the world—twisted again.
A collective gasp echoed from beyond the walls. The priests recoiled, their voices cracking. "I—I feel something."
Erasmus stood motionless. Still. Calm.
The visions were not mere figments of the mind. They were glimpses—windows into the unraveling of time itself. He could see them. And if he could see them, could he shape them?
The church erupted into chaos, but Erasmus remained in the eye of the storm. His gaze sharpened. Reality was breaking. The world was bending.
But he did not fear it.
If the rules were shifting, he would learn them.
And if they could be broken…
Then he would break them first.
A smile—a fleeting, almost imperceptible curve of his lips—touched his face.
"Fear not," he murmured, his voice cutting through the panic. "True faith is proven in uncertainty."
And he would walk through that uncertainty unscathed.