The fake world slowly dissolved around them.
One moment, the cold stone of the school's support beam was scraping her back, the illicit rhythm of their joining the only sound in the universe. The next, there was a sickening lurch, a sensation of being violently yanked through a keyhole of reality.
The scent of old stone and adolescent sweat was replaced, in a dizzying blink, by the familiar, opulent aromas of sandalwood polish, sun-warmed stone, and the dry, clean air of the capital mansion.
No transition. No gentle return.
They were standing, well, staggering, really, in the exact spot they'd left. The grand, second-floor hallway of Eastiel's capital mansion.
Eastiel's arm was still locked around her waist, but the body she leaned against had changed. Gone was the lean, youthful frame in the stiff school uniform. In its place was the familiar, powerful expanse of her lion.
