They discovered Fen, a goblin, from Jareths clan shaking near the border of the dead forest restrained solely by two of his relatives. Thirty yards distant, positioned within a pool of golden light stood the silhouette of an elder goblin with a gentle expression and a missing ear—Chief Marrok, Fen's grandfather who had perished while commanding a defense against a slag-beast two years ago.
"Fenny boy," the Wraith-Marrók shouted, its tone a cozy reverberation. "The battle's over. Hurry up. I've got your beloved mushroom stew bubbling. Just as I said I would."
Tears flowed down Fen's cheeks. "Gran-da…"
Cassiathon came closer resting a hand on the goblins shoulder. "Fen. Focus, on me. That isn't him. It's merely a photo. An ideal photo. Your grandfather was courageous, humorous. He burned the stew often remember?"
The memory, both genuine and imperfect ignited in Fen's eyes. "He… he said it gave character."
The Wraith's grin stayed flawless constant. "No errors here Fenny. No suffering. Only calm.. Try it."
"Prepare yourselves " Cassiathon whispered to the group. He then moved beyond Fen heading toward the Wraith.
As he approached the grief struck him like a barrier. It wasn't his grief for Marrok but a broad intensified, universal sorrow, for fallen relatives precisely tailored to the goblin's particular bereavement. It was a empty imitation.
He didn't strike against it. He embraced it. He allowed the tide of sorrow to flow over him through the section of himself that recognized genuine loss—the loss of his parents the continual loss, within the fractured world. He sensed the boundary, the spot where the authentic intricate recollection of a person concluded and the flawless Abyssal counterfeit started.
Within the resonance he sensed it. A slender, thread of energy thrumming with pilfered feelings extending from the Wraith—not downwards but ascending at an unusual angle disappearing into a tiny speck of warped atmosphere.
"The thread!" he shouted.
Kuro was in motion already. He brought out an instrument resembling a sextant matching it to the faint line. "Got a fix! It's not distant, in distance but it's folded. We must act quickly. Interrupting the source will probably cause all current projections to fall apart."
Sierra raised her rifle. "Go ahead."
Cassiathon concentrated. He was unable to cut the connection from this side without risking damage, to whatever feeling it was attached to. However he could dispatch a shockwave along it. A surge of jarring reality.
He created the pulse not out of death or disorder but from the idea of the unrefined. He recalled Marroks scorched stew. He remembered his father's clumsy efforts to soothe. He envisioned Tania singing out of tune. He wrapped these affectionate realities into a tight sphere and with a grunt of exertion launched it down the grief-line like a bead strung, on a thread.
The Wraith of Marrok shimmered briefly. The flawless grin wavered, momentarily overtaken by an expression of known puzzlement. Then the entire figure broke apart into specks of light that drifted away and disappeared.
The bright golden pool of light flickered away.
"Source is unstable!" Kuro shouted, glancing at his gadget. "This way! Hurry!"
They sprinted, trailing Kuro who guided them not through vision. By the dwindling resonance of the thread. He brought them to a cliff, at the foot of the mountain's northern ridge.
"This is the way " Kuro stated, resting his hands on the rock. "A fragile point, in existence. When I say go give it all your strength—not to break it but to reveal."
Cassiathon Sierra and Morgan set their hands on the stone next, to his. Cassiathon directed a mixture of forces targeting the dislocation frequency. Sierra concentrated a shockwave blast from her rifle's underbarrel device. Morgan harnessed a flicker of rule-defying celestial power.
"Now!"
Their combined force struck the rock. It didn't shatter. It rippled, like water. The stone became insubstantial, and they stumbled forward into a space that should not exist.