Ripples.
These are merely slight movements or changes that occur in the fabric of the cosmos and could even affect the concept of time itself.
And when the ripples begin to deepen, they can evolve into something deeper, they will become timefolds.
A timefold is simply an anomaly that occurs when different parts of history such as the people in different eras collide and overlap with one another, forming into one singular geographical space.
This is different from an alternate timeline, a timefold is shaped by a force of authority, maintaining the flow of the timefold itself.
Right now the heroes are on their way to fix the ripples which are timefolds.
And they're up into their next destination: the winter cold Russia.
But Russia wasn't always a timefold, but it had faced a trembling weight of history and mythology.
It all began from a long bloodline who possessed an innate ability who are connection to timefolds.
Unfortunately that bloodline became a lost remnant, forgotten by history.
Their only surviving descendant left was a young man named Rurikov.
When he was a young boy, he was taught by the elders in the sacred arts on how to awaken latent temporal abilities in certain bloodlines.
He underwent rituals and training that allowed him to perceive multiple possible timelines, eventually giving him the ability to intervene in history.
Early on, he used this power subtly—nudging events to favor his family's influence over the Romanovs without leaving obvious traces.
His control over the Romanovs was never absolute—their trusted advisor, the mystic mad monK Grigori Rasputin's intervention disrupted the psychic/mystical bond, allowing the family to regain some free will.
This failure revealed a key limitation: Rurikov could see and influence outcomes, but he could not fully overwrite the free will of exceptionally strong-willed individuals or those protected by other mystical forces.
The partial loss of control over the Romanovs fuels his obsession and eventual vengeance.
And so in a fit of rage, Rurikov used his timefold authority and brought forth different historical figures into the timeline:
Ivan the Terrible
Joseph Stalin
Peter the Great
And so with the accompaniment of these historical figures, they ransacked the Romanov mansion, with Ivan the Terrible leading the charge with his Oprichiniki army, destroying everything in its path.
The mansion lay in ruin, its walls fractured across time, the air thick with the acrid scent of fire and magic. Portraits hung askew, shattered glass littered the floors, and the echoes of screams still haunted the corridors.
Rurikov had left no witnesses—every member of the Romanov family was gone, victims of his cruel manipulation—except for Anastasia, whose life Rasputin had taken upon himself to save.
He had been cold, detached, almost inhuman in his precision, but in that moment, something more than strategy guided him.
"Promise me..." Rasputin murmured as they moved through the shattered hallways, his black flames flickering subtly to illuminate the path, "that you will survive. For him... for your father's honor."
Anastasia clutched his arm, shivering against the bitter, warped winds that seeped through the cracks in the mansion walls. "I—I don't even know how to survive this," she whispered. Her breath came in clouds, visible against the frigid timefold air.
Rasputin's dark eyes didn't meet hers. He simply adjusted his stride, guiding her through collapsed stairwells, flickering halls, and time-displaced corridors. "You will. Keep moving. Trust is a luxury we do not have here."
Outside, in the shadows of the mansion's ruined exterior, Ivan the Terrible prowled, a grotesque shadow of a man, his mace dragging against the fractured earth. His piercing gaze swept over the wreckage, searching for survivors. Every creak of the building made him tense, every flicker of motion a possible threat.
Through one shattered window, Ivan glimpsed movement. He froze. A figure—smaller, cloaked in black flames—slipped past the debris. Another, a pale young woman, followed silently. His frown deepened, but before he could act, orders—or perhaps Rurikov's subtle control—pulled him back. The shadow vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving the tsar frustrated and alone.
Rasputin led Anastasia out into the harsh, cold expanse of the Russian winter, the fractured sky above them a swirling canvas of impossible eras. Each step was cautious—snow that shouldn't exist in this century crunching underfoot, shards of time-lost buildings jutting from the frozen ground.
Anastasia shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "We... we actually survived," she murmured, voice almost disbelieving.
Rasputin's lips curved slightly, just enough for her to notice. "Survival is a choice. Keep moving. And remember... the world is not as it seems. Every step forward is a promise to those who cannot take them themselves."
Together, they disappeared into the fractured wilderness, leaving behind the ruins, Ivan's observation, and the cold grip of the Russian timefold, stepping toward survival, one shadowed step at a time.
*10 years passed*
The streets weren't streets at all—at least, not entirely. Cobblestones from the 16th century jutted through asphalt slabs from centuries later. Palaces rose and crumbled beside shattered mansions. Fires burned and froze at the same time. The air hummed with tension, thick with the smell of gunpowder, incense, and ozone.
A roar cut through the chaos. Ivan the Terrible stormed forward, mace swinging with terrifying force, cleaving a warped street in two. The Oprichniki surged after him, blades phasing in and out of existence, striking at nothing and everything simultaneously.
"Run!" Anastasia shouted, raising her hands. Her fingers traced intricate sigils in the air, and shimmering barriers flared around her. Every step Ivan took made the ground shudder, but the barriers absorbed his crushing blows, sending sparks into the fractured sky.
Rasputin stepped forward, calm as ever, black flames coiling around his fingers like living snakes. He gestured subtly, and Ivan's Oprichniki staggered, colliding into one another as if invisible hands pushed them. "You're... early," Rasputin muttered, almost under his breath, his voice like a winter wind—cold and unyielding.
Anastasia's barrier flickered. "Not exactly a welcoming committee, are they?" she said, voice strained. "I knew history had its bad days, but this is ridiculous!"
Ivan bellowed, calling the Oprichniki to regroup. They lunged again—but this time their coordination faltered entirely. One tripped over a flickering cobblestone, another accidentally slashed a fellow soldier. Anastasia rolled her eyes. "Honestly... even history has a sense of humor."
Before she could continue, a thundering crash shook the distorted streets. Vynn landed with a heavy thud, Breakerblade in hand, slicing through one of Ivan's swinging maces mid-air. Athena followed, staff raised, stabilizing the surrounding rubble, her eyes narrowing. "Temporal distortion... still high, but manageable," she said.
Rasputin's dark eyes flickered to the newcomers. "Hmph. Interesting." He waved a hand, and a black flame coiled around the nearest Oprichniki, immobilizing them. Anastasia added a burst of radiant energy, blasting the last few enforcers away from her. Sparks rained down, lighting the fractured streets in chaotic brilliance.
Ivan roared, swinging his mace at Vynn—but a distortion rippled through the air. His feet slipped on a flickering cobblestone as a deep, unseen force tugged at him. A shadow of Rurikov the Chronarch's influence flickered through the battlefield. Ivan's eyes widened, rage boiling over, and then he retreated, dragging a wake of chaos behind him.
The streets fell into uneasy silence. Anastasia lowered her hands, her shoulders shaking slightly. "That... could have gone way worser if you lot had shown up later..." she muttered.
Vynn wiped the sweat from his brow. "You've got that right. I've faced worse, but never temporal Russian royalty gone berserk."
Rasputin's voice cut through the tension. "I would temper your humor, if I were you. This... fold is unpredictable. We survive, but only barely." His calm, stoic gaze didn't waver, and he let the words hang in the air like a warning.
Anastasia straightened, eyes sharp. "I think it's time for some introductions, I am Anastasia Romanov, the last surviving daughter of the Romanov family. This is my family's advisor...Grigori Rasputin. And you are?"
Athena stepped forward, voice steady. "I am Athena Ardenvain. This is my husband Creo Creatorius, the dimension traveler Vynn, King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, the mage Merlin and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. We're here to fix this...timefold."
Rasputin didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied each of them with an unreadable expression. Finally, he spoke in a low, measured tone. "Help... or hinder, the outcome remains uncertain. Whoever brought you here—watch carefully. The timefold has its own will, and we are not its masters."
Anastasia nodded slowly. "History is broken. These pieces... these people... they've been twisted. Some of them—worse than even Ivan—cannot be trusted."
Vynn tilted his head. "Well, we're good at trust issues."
Athena gave him a sharp glance, then focused on Anastasia. "Then we move forward. Protect who we can, restore the flow of history, and find whoever is behind this chaos."
Rasputin simply nodded, silent and unyielding, his shadow stretching long across the fractured streets, a constant reminder that the calmest waters often hide the deepest currents.
And so our journey to fix the timefolds began here in the ever cold and shivering world of snow that is Moscow, Russia.
From here I knew that the journey will not be considering the harsh temperatures but all of this will be for the betterment of restoration.
That being said. This will be one hell of a rollercoaster of a journey.