The sensation of falling was entirely devoid of wind or sound.
When the pitch-black void snapped shut above Roxy, swallowing the sunlit spring grass and the frozen, terrified forms of her Warlord husbands, all physical laws of the Beastworld violently ceased to exist. There was no up, no down, no rushing air. It was a sensory deprivation tank on a cosmic scale.
Then, abruptly, her feet hit a surface.
It wasn't stone or earth. It felt like standing on a sheet of impossibly dense, cold fog. Roxy stumbled, her knees hitting the dark, formless ground. Her heart was hammering a frantic, deafening rhythm against her ribs. She was still clutching the faded blue terrestrial diary in one hand and the dull, broken remnants of Fedor's necklace in the other.
She gasped, her breath pluming in the freezing, stagnant air. She looked around, her brilliant green eyes wide with primal panic.
