"I want to find him," Billy whispered. The ink on the page swirled, rearranging itself from a recipe for protection circles into a map of the Multiverse. "I want to find Tommy."
Billy stood up, his cape billowing despite the lack of wind. He tucked the Book of Shadows under his arm. The spell had worked, but as always with magic, it had left him with a warning: The shadow you cast is only as dark as the light you carry. WICCAN'S Wicked Spell Book of Shadows!
The spell didn't just show a location; it tore a hole in the fabric of the library. Through the rift, Billy saw a blur of silver—a streak of motion in a dystopian city he didn't recognize. "Tommy," he breathed. "I want to find him," Billy whispered
Unlike the ancient Grimoires of Doctor Strange, Billy’s book was a living record of chaos and intent. He ran his fingers over the embossed sigil on the front—the Demiurge’s star. As the cover creaked open, the room dimmed. The pages weren't paper; they were sheets of solidified moonlight, etched with glowing indigo ink that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He tucked the Book of Shadows under his arm
He realized then that the book wasn't just a tool for spells. It was a diary of his destiny, and it had just told him that his brother wasn't just lost—he was being hunted.
Billy’s eyes sparked with blue electricity. He didn't flinch. He grabbed his twin-headed staff, the brass glowing white-hot. He began the incantation—the rhythmic, repetitive chanting that was his trademark. "IwanttofindhimIwanttofindhimIwanttofindhim..."
Suddenly, the shadows in the corner of the room lengthened, detaching themselves from the walls. A voice, slick and cold like a winter wind, echoed from the book’s gutter. “Intent is a heavy price, Little Mage. To find a speedster, you must learn to make time stand still.”