In the flickering twilight, an old radio crackled with a voice neither here nor there. It spoke of lands submerged in the abyss, where time wavered like a mirage upon the dunes. The voice whispered warnings of ancient sentinels guarding secrets unknown to the waking world.
"Beware the chimera's path," it warned. "For those who tread upon it will find neither dawn nor dusk, but only the echoes of their own forgotten dreams."
Unearthed beneath the roots of a gnarled tree, an obsidian tablet bore inscriptions of a language long dead. Scholars claimed it was written by the Hallowed Ones, beings who drift between dimensions where light and dark intertwine.
It read: "Time, an endless serpent, devours its own tail. We are but shadows upon its scales, mirrors of a truth we cannot comprehend."
Hidden within the catacombs of an abandoned monastery, a choir of voices sang in lament. Their melody, though inaudible to the earthly ear, resonated in the marrow of dreams, stirring echoes of past lives intertwined in fate's cruel tapestry.
"In the hourglass of eternity, we are chimeras," they sang. "Bound to the sands that slip ever through the grasping hand."