The ground underfoot was soft, like untouched parchment waiting to be inscribed with the echoes of forgotten words. Liam, Elena, and Finn staggered away from the shattered doorway, their bodies battered but their resolve kindling like a spark in a dark manuscript. The new realm that had swallowed them was at once both barren and pregnant with possibility—a liminal space where every footfall pressed into the raw page of creation.
Liam's fingers still trembled as he clutched the quill and the silver key, their surfaces glinting in the gentle half-light. The key's warmth was a pulsing reminder of the choice he had made, of the power now coursing through his veins like liquid ink. Each breath felt like the beginning of a sentence yet to be written.
