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The old maps called it the “Bleak Scar,” a wound of rock and dust where even the hardiest nomads turned back. But to Elara, it was simply the next step.
It was not a ruin or a cave. It was a perfect, seamless arch of obsidian, set into the cliff face, humming with a low, sub-sonic thrum she felt in her molars. No handle. No keyhole. Just a smooth, dark mirror that reflected her own dust-caked face back at her.
She opened her eyes, smiled gently at her mother’s ghost, and said, “I’m not home.”