Black and blue stars turn and churn in their milky void as thousands and thousands of universes blink in and out of existence. Hector falls through the space between his and Damien's hearts at break-neck speed.

The vortex makes him sick to the stomach, his head pounding in time to the explosion of infinite stars. Hector screams. 

Or he thinks he does. It's hard to tell if he's making any noise at all. Is everything just so loud it feels like the sound is being cancelled out entirely?

Then—gone.

The colour of space vanishes in a blink. Cold whiteness surrounds him, chilly as cream. The abrupt stop brings bile to his mouth. He falls—

—and lands, hard, on a pile of bones. 

This time, Hector's scream tears out of him, startling a flurry of wings in the distance. He rolls off the pile, some fragile bones splintering as he strikes them with his elbows and knees. Some of the shards catch on his skin and clothes, making him gasp. Disgust roils through him, another scream threatening to burst forth.

Bones follow him to the ground, his palms slipping on slick grass when he tries to push himself upward. A skull bounces from the pile, landing close to Hector's nose. He moans, scrambling to his feet, backpedalling away. 

Hector swallows, trying to calm his breathing through his nose. Alright, okay. So what's the situation? 

Good question. Here, in a dreamscape, Hector thinks, anything and everything has the potential to go wildly wrong. No tried-and-true method to a transfer, no maps, no charts. 

All accounts varied: some were asked to pass the riddles of a sphinx, others to take an axe to a big bad wolf. Some never wanted to speak about it again.

The world around Hector is made of browns, greens, and grey; of trees and earth, and damp skies. The tree trunks tower taller than any he's ever seen; their bulky bodies close, thick canopies closer. Curious yellow eyes blink and shift between the narrow spaces of the trees, watching his every move.

When Hector looks down, he barks out a laugh.

Leather and metal squeak and clink as he raises a hand to study his gloves, his gauntlet, and vambraces. He lowered his arm. Breastplate, greaves, spaulders, chainmail. It’s a complete set of armour, all polished to a gleaming silver. By his feet, where the skull had been, a helmet. It would cover his face but the lion emblazoned on his chest surely announces him as loudly as a herald. He picks up the helmet. Dons it.

No sword, Hector notes, but he could still feel the magic burning through his veins. He flexes his hand, feeling it move within him. He would be fine.

Despite the lack of sunlight, the armour seems to gleam with a crazy, irrational light. Hector looks at the pile of bones. 

They were gone. 

In their stead, a single gravestone; old but well-kept. He doesn't linger. He knows it bears Damien's name.

Lighting strikes and a snapping branch sounds through the wood somewhere overhead.

As the rain begins to fall in a steady sheet, Hector turns and walks towards the trees. With each step, the yellow eyes peering beyond wink out one by one. Strangely, the armour seems to weigh little more than his usual clothes. But his heart—

It’s as heavy as stone.