The Threshold
They stood in a world where nothing had quite made up its mind to be anything yet.
The ground beneath Kael and Elira's feet sparkled, as though glass floated above starlight. Somewhere far away, landscapes bent in and out of being—trees that shifted between kinds with each tick of the clock, rivers that flowed up until they remembered gravity. Even the sky itself was shy, shifting color with each breath they took.
This was the Threshold.
Not a place, but an idea struggling to be thought.
Kael breathed slowly, the weight of the golden strand against his chest. "This place… walking in thought."
Elira glanced about warily. "Or nightmare."
Something distant groaned, a vanishing star's scream. Kael instinctively reached for his sword—but in this world, the sword dissolved to strands of memory, and re-formed anew, confused by the conventions that govern it.
"This world isn't governed by the Loom," Elira gasped. "Or maybe. it existed before it."
