Kryos's hand lingered on the ice as if tasting it. A pulse spread outward, faint at first, then stronger, deeper.
Northern shifted his stance—only to find the wall before him was suddenly much farther away. No, closer. The distance kept... breathing.
A jagged ridge to his right split down the middle, and what should have been a narrow crack opened into a yawning gorge.
The wind rushing from it carried whispers—familiar voices, too familiar—calling his name. He spun sharply, but the sound came from behind him now, then from above.
Snowflakes spiraled down, but instead of falling, they rose, then curved sideways, forming a slow cyclone that twisted into the shape of a hand before dissolving.
He leaped to a nearby ledge, only for the ledge to stretch beneath his feet like melting glass, forcing him to skid for yards before it reformed solid.
