They had landed.
The courtyard floor beneath them was fractured from the impact, stone split in uneven lines radiating outward from where Trafalgar's boots had struck. The space Pipin had carved with blue fire still burned in a rough circle around them, flames rising just high enough to form a temporary barrier. It was not wide, not secure, but it gave them a moment.
A narrow pocket of survival in the middle of a sea of void.
The creatures encircling them did not advance immediately. The blue fire kept them at distance, but it was not the only thing holding them back. Their distorted forms shifted and twitched along the edge of the flames, claws scraping against scorched stone, yet none were the first to cross.
They felt it.
The pressure.
