One moment I was facing certain death, Lyra's spear descending toward my heart—the next, I stood in a vast field of yellow carnations stretching toward the horizon, swaying gently under a warm breeze. The transition was seamless, the battlefield vanishing without warning or transition.
The sensory detail was overwhelming. Not the half-formed impressions of a dream or vision, but perfect replication of reality. I could feel the earth yielding slightly beneath my feet, smell the sweet perfume of thousands of blooms, hear the rustle of petals brushing against each other in the wind. Sunlight warmed my skin with the precise intensity of mid-afternoon.
Crouching, I brushed my fingers over a nearby flower, feeling the soft petals between my fingertips. The texture was exquisite—each minute ridge and velvet surface rendered with impossible precision. I placed my palm against the bark of a solitary tree, finding it properly rough and irregular, exactly as real bark should feel.
