Falling.
The sensation ripped through Xyro's body before his mind could even process it.
The ground beneath him had simply vanished, turned to nothing in an instant. The sand, the air, the sky—all of it disappeared. One moment he had been standing in the shifting desert, dagger in hand, facing a nightmare.
Now he was plummeting into a darkness that had no end.
He twisted midair, arms flailing, but there was nothing to grab onto, nothing to slow him down. His stomach lurched as the weight of the fall pressed against his ribs, squeezing the air from his lungs.
Breathe.
The thought barely registered through the haze of panic.
His pulse thundered in his ears. His mind screamed that this should be impossible, that there should be wind rushing past him, that he should be able to see something—anything—as he fell.
But there was nothing.
The silence was absolute. Not even his own heartbeat echoed in the emptiness.
How far was he falling? Was there even a bottom?
A sickening thought crawled into his mind, wrapping around his spine like a parasite:
What if there is no end?
What if this was it?
What if he had already died?
Xyro gritted his teeth, fighting the instinct to shut his eyes. No. No, that wasn't right. He could still feel his body. His pulse. His fear.
He was still alive.
But for how long?
Something shifted in the void.
A whisper, just beneath his consciousness. A soundless thing, crawling at the edges of awareness.
Then—
Light.
Not bright, not sudden—just the softest glow, barely enough to break the suffocating darkness. It drifted up from below, growing closer, spreading like ink through water.
Xyro narrowed his eyes, twisting his body mid-fall. His breath caught in his throat as he realized—
It wasn't light.
It was a shape.
Something vast. Something waiting.
And he was falling straight into it.
His muscles tensed, instincts screaming. He braced himself, fingers tightening around the dagger still strapped to his waist. He had no plan, no way to stop himself—
Impact.
The world slammed into him, but not the way it should have. No pain. No shattering bones.
Just a sudden, overwhelming weightlessness, like he had been swallowed whole.
And then—
Stillness.
Xyro's body was no longer falling. But he wasn't standing either.
He was suspended.
The space around him was… wrong. It didn't feel like solid ground, didn't feel like water, didn't feel like air. It was something else entirely—a space between things.
Slowly, his senses adjusted.
The world was colorless.
Not black, not white—just empty.
A vast expanse stretched before him, endless in every direction. And yet, somehow, it felt small. Enclosed. Like the walls of a room that couldn't be seen.
His breathing was slow, steady. He could hear it now. His heartbeat had returned. The weight of his own body was back, the ache in his muscles a distant reminder that he was still alive.
But he wasn't alone.
A figure stood just ahead.
Xyro's breath hitched.
The child.
It was standing there, watching him, just as it had in the desert. But now, in this place, its presence felt even more unnatural.
The boy tilted his head slightly, eyes still too wide, too empty.
"I told you," he said softly. "You're already too late."
Xyro's jaw clenched. His fists curled.
"Too late for what?" His voice came out harsher than he intended, the frustration bubbling over.
The child didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
Instead, he slowly raised a single hand and pointed behind Xyro.
Xyro's spine went rigid.
He didn't want to turn.
He didn't want to see.
But something pulled at him, something deep and instinctive, forcing his head to move, forcing his gaze to follow where the child was pointing.
And when he saw it—
The breath left his lungs.
A door.
A massive, monolithic door stood in the distance, carved from something that wasn't stone, wasn't wood—something old and alive.
Intricate patterns laced its surface, shifting subtly, as if the carvings were breathing. The symbol the child had drawn in the sand was there, etched into the very center.
It pulsed. Like a heartbeat.
Xyro swallowed hard.
"Where does it lead?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
The child's lips parted slightly, but he didn't answer.
Instead, he simply smiled.
And the door creaked open.