Cassian's hand was wrapped around Rafael's collar.
His fist had gathered the fabric so tightly that the shirt twisted against Rafael's throat, pressing into his windpipe, cutting the air to something thin and shallow. Cassian held him with one arm, the muscles in his forearm rigid, his knuckles white, his grip absolute.
He pushed.
One moment they were in the Palace. The next they were not.
The world blurred. The walls dissolved. The marble floor dropped away beneath their feet and was replaced by something dry and cracked and ancient. The air changed. The temperature changed. The light changed.
When the world solidified again, they were standing in a desert.
