The shimmer on the horizon did not wait.
It reached for her like a tide deciding it was time to take back the shore.
One moment she was standing in the valley of bread and laughter, the new village breathing around her.
The next—there was no valley.
No bread.
No her.
She did not fall.
Falling would have implied gravity, and in this place gravity was a rumor.
The air—or the absence of it—tasted blank.
Her body was weightless, not in the way of flight, but in the way of paper that has not yet been written on.
She looked down at herself and saw nothing.
No hands.
No skin.
Even her shadow had abandoned her.
Panic flickered, but only faintly, because panic too required a self to burn through, and that was slipping away.
Memories tried to surface—Nyx's mouth, the Crown's light, the first rewrite—but each one dissolved before it reached her.
She was an unfinished thought.
Here, there were no myths.
No Codex.
