The world dissolved into a screaming, formless torrent. There was no up or down, no light or dark, only the violent sensation of being pulled apart and woven back together. The silver path was gone, and with it, the last vestige of the world they knew. Marcus felt his stomach lurch, his grip on reality fraying at the edges as chaotic color and soul rending noise battered his senses.
The only constants were the others. Hrothgar’s massive hand, clamped like a vice on his shoulder. Morganna ahead, a blur of golden light from the Sword of Britannia, her form the only stable point in the maelstrom. And Bran, his screams lost in the void, his body a conduit for forces that were tearing him asunder from the inside.
This was not a gateway. It was an ingestion. The Locus was swallowing them whole
