The roar of the Time-Storm was not just a sound; it was a physical force, a maelstrom of temporal currents that tore at Andrew's very being. The crystalline sand, super-accelerated in patches, became a blurring, stinging haze, while other sections spun in reverse, creating unsettling vacuums that threatened to pull him backwards.
The air shrieked, filled with the ghostly echoes of compressed and expanded moments – a woman's laugh stretching into an eternity, a child's cry rushing by in a fraction of a second.
"Hold the line!" Andrew yelled, his voice barely audible above the tempest. He leaned into the narrow, pulsing path his four Specter shadows had created, their ethereal forms straining against the immense, invisible pressures of the storm.
The path was a fragile bubble of relative temporal stability, its edges constantly threatened by the chaotic energies.
