Brea sat on the back of the wagon, watching the dusty road roll away behind the caravan. As he rode, he blew idly into his recorder. Pure tones drifted behind the wagon train in a swirling path. He paused in his playing when he felt something odd. Brea looked up at the sky and saw the part in the clouds, almost perpendicular to the road. They were about to cross a leyline.
Morim woke up with his lungs burning. His whole body was cold. His joints were stiff, so stiff that he couldn’t move. He struggled to remember, to somehow grasp with his mind where he had just been, to hold on to some detail. But there was nothing.
“That one was the hardest yet,” a voice said. “You almost stayed dead this time.”