The Echoes of Niflheim
The snow on Niflheim wasn’t snow; it was stardust, crystallized grief, each flake a miniature echo of dying suns. Robert trudged through the frost-bitten expanse, his boots crunching against the shimmering ground. The Chrono-Sphere rested in his hand—a cold, pulsating weight that felt more like a curse than a tool. Its surface swirled with faint patterns that shifted whenever he looked away, as though mocking his inability to grasp its full power. “Another dead end,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the howling winds. His breath solidified into ghostly plumes, but it wasn’t just the cold that made him shiver. “Not quite,” came a voice from behind him. Robert froze. The voice wasn’t just his own—it was slower, deeper, submerged in a strange distortion that made it resonate through the icy air. He turned sharply and saw an echo of himself standing amidst the swirling auroras. This version of Robert was gaunt, his face lined with exhaustion and his e...