The transition was not instant.
When Aiden stepped through the rift, he did not simply appear in another world.
He fell.
Not downwards—but inward.
The sensation was maddening. There were no directions, no time, no center. He plunged through colors that bled into each other like oil on water, past memories that weren't his, past songs sung by throats that never existed, past the echo of his own name—spoken by a voice he couldn't recall.
It was warm.
It was terrifying.
When it ended, he landed in silence.
The Chapel of Forgotten Names stood in the heart of a city that had no streets.
It was surrounded by buildings shaped like questions. Towers twisted into spirals of regret. Courtyards paved with unfinished oaths. And above them all, a sky of glass filled with moths made of memory.
The Chapel itself was vast—so tall its ceiling pierced clouds made of dreams, and its walls were carved with thousands—millions—of names.
Every one of them scratched out.
Forgotten.
Lost.
