Page 29 of The Messengers of Magic

The Hidden Journal of John Dee

T his week, I encountered unsettling occurrences that led me to believe we have indeed torn the fabric of time itself.

A merchant arrived with a letter bearing a crest I did not recognize; inside was an invitation to a town in Britain that does not exist and to a wedding for people I have never met.

At court, Sir Francis Walsingham spoke of a treaty with Spain, insisting it had been signed years ago.

Yet I recall no such thing, and when I questioned him, he looked at me as though I were mad.

These discrepancies are not confined to people.

A book I have kept in my study for years now bears a different title, and its contents have changed.

Familiar passages have vanished, replaced with ones I do not recall.

Last night, the moon seemed unnaturally large, its light casting an eerie, silvery glow over the landscape, and the sky was an unnatural shade of inky blue.

Giordano insisted it looked as it always had, but to me, it was profoundly wrong, as if the heavens themselves had shifted.

I fear we have caused irreparable damage.

Giordano and I have worked tirelessly to find a solution, yet the answers elude us.

He believes the Astral Synchronum is the key to sealing the tear, but the device remains unresponsive.

Our calculations have yielded nothing, and the celestial alignments we seek remain out of reach.

Time feels like an enemy, unraveling before our eyes. Each moment brings the weight of uncertainty and dread. If we cannot repair this tear, I fear the fabric of reality may collapse, and with it, all we know and are. What have we done? What will become of us if we fail?