The world rebuilt itself around him, not with sound or substance, but memory.
Lindarion stood in a place that wasn't a place, beneath a sky of fractured glass. Each shard reflected a different world: one of golden forests, one of burning seas, one of endless night. Between them flowed a river of light, running both upward and downward, defying all direction.
He felt weightless, though he knew his feet stood on something that felt like ground. The air carried no wind, yet it hummed with the sound of breathing, his breathing, echoing back at him from everywhere and nowhere.
[System Reinitializing…]
[Environment: Soul-Constructed Plane.]
[Stability: Variable.]
[Warning: Host Consciousness Partially Dissociated.]
A familiar voice echoed faintly in the void, Ashwing's, but it was distant, distorted, as though coming from beneath deep water. He tried to respond, but no sound came out.
Then, a ripple.
The light before him folded in on itself, forming a circle, then a figure.
