The silver path was not solid ground. It was a concept, a thread of stubborn reality spun through a universe of screaming madness. To step from it was to fall into a chaos where up and down had no meaning, where time flowed backwards and forwards simultaneously. The only constants were the path beneath their feet, the crushing malevolence of the Umbra Rex ahead, and the four fragile souls walking into the storm.
The Locus was not a city. It was an idea given form—the Fomorii concept of order. A labyrinth of black crystal towers that sang a discordant, mind-rending melody. The sky was a swirling vortex of stolen memories and dying stars. The air was thick, cold, and tasted of iron and despair.
Bran was their compass. His eyes were closed, his face a mask of intense concentration as he nav
