There are nights on Gallifrey when the air feels thin, as though time is trembling beneath its own weight. Vorlaxion knew such a night when the plaza filled with a low, uncertain hum—an echo rolling through stone like a heartbeat unsure of itself.
Red dust curled upward. Light bent.
And a TARDIS took shape.
Not the familiar look of legends, but a stark, black monolith—its paint cracked, its energy dim, as though it had traveled far beyond exhaustion. No door stirred. No pilot stepped out. The machine simply stood there, shivering with the memory of flight.
But the world around it whispered otherwise.
Temporal residue clung to the air, subtle and shimmering, drifting outward in thin strands that tugged at the senses. Gallifreyans felt it immediately—a pull, a plea, a trail carved through moments by someone fleeing in haste.
Curiosity stirred. Concern followed.
Gallifreyans set out across the region, drawn forward by the faint shimmer of chronal echoes. The land responded to their steps: caverns humming with temporal vibration, cloister halls reacting to the emotional imprint left behind, city stones holding scorch marks that spoke of pursuit. In quiet homes on the outskirts, air still warm from a presence long gone; in the markets, a psychic residue of urgency and fragile hope.
Each place felt marked by the same desperate traveler—moving fast, doubling back, leaving fragments of intention behind like breaths caught in time. And beneath it all lurked another presence, colder and patient, drifting just beyond sight.
When the trail finally curved back to the plaza, the Lost TARDIS waited—its hum steadier now, almost relieved. As Gallifreyans gathered, a final message pulsed from deep within the ship, fragile as a whisper carried on starlight:
Guard my TARDIS.
I am only moments ahead of the one who hunts me.
And something walks these timelines that should not exist.
Silence followed.
Some Gallifreyans swore they heard a soft knock from within. Others felt a ripple—like the first breath of a new timeline beginning to bloom.
Whether omen or illusion, the truth remains:
Vorlaxion now holds the echo of someone running, and the shadow of something pacing close behind.
The story is not finished.
Time rarely lets such mysteries rest for long.