Babylon, 1895 BCE.
Lyra found herself drawn to the Tower. Not the mythic one, but its real foundation: a neural lattice powered by obsidian nodes mined from a comet that fell before the Sumerians had language.
She was not alone.
Timewalkers from rival factions circled the structure. Most bore sigils of split timelines—paradoxes weaponized into glyphs. One wore a crown made of clock hands, the King of Folded Hours.
Lyra activated her failsafe: a harmonic loop keyed to Damien's original neural signature.
It triggered something ancient. Something waiting.
The tower's summit shifted. It was not a ziggurat. It was a satellite.
And it was counting down.