Seraphiel reached the edge again.
Her golden wings carried her forward—slow, deliberate, the way one approaches a cliff in darkness when the cliff has already whispered your name and laughed.
The boundary hummed before her. Not with sound. With absence. The specific, deafening silence of a place where her perception simply ceased to exist, as though creation itself had looked at her and decided nope, not today.
She extended her hand again.
Golden fingers—luminous, ancient, carrying the fire of ten million years of divine purity—reached toward the veil.
Slowly.
The way one reaches toward still water to test whether it's ice, or perhaps to test whether the water has decided to test you back.
She touched it.
The world rejected her.
Not gently or polite resistance of a locked door or the firm push of a ward designed to redirect. This was violent.
