The Horizon of the Wasteland cracked.

Thin silver threads holding the edges of the world snapped one after another.
Each break echoed with a dull, hollow pain.

Above the torn pattern, faceless silhouettes flickered.

The Shadow, woven from ash-coloured vortices, twisted.

“Close,” it whispered.

The Stone One held a sphere in its hand. Inside, a scarred world smouldered. Black veins spread across it.
It needed no name. It was known.

Where a third silhouette should have been, Flame rose:

“The boundary has been crossed.”

Silence thickened.

The Stone One opened its fingers. A drop appeared on its open palm, a golden light holding darkness at bay.

It rose above the Horizon… and fell.

The cold of space gave way to winter clouds.
The drop pierced the roof of an old house in a small Scottish town.

Andrew flinched. The pencil in his hand snapped.

The bird in the cage of black ice… blinked.