The Void Between

The Void did not have a smell, but if it did, Caspian imagined it would smell of ozone and old, stagnant grief.

He floated in the nothingness, a solitary figure wrapped in a coat woven from shadow-silk. Around him, suspended in the colorless dark, were doors. Millions of them. Some were wood, rotting and ancient; others were steel, cold and unyielding; still others were made of light, humming with a frequency that made his teeth ache.

Each door was a universe. Each universe was a possibility.

In his hand, Caspian held the Compass of Souls. It was a jagged device, crafted from the bone of a dead god and the brass of a destroyed clock. The needle didn't point north. It pointed to *Her*.

It spun wildly, then locked onto a door made of driftwood and sea glass.

"Sector 4," Caspian whispered. His voice was raspy from disuse. Time didn't exist in the Void, so he didn't know how long it had been since he left Sector 3. He only knew that the Lyra in Sector 3 had been a necromancer, and she had tried to flay him alive before he could even apologize.

He hoped Sector 4 would be kinder.

He pushed off the invisible floor of the Void and drifted toward the driftwood door. He adjusted his cuffs. He smoothed his hair. Old habits died hard. In his home universe—Prime—he had been Caspian the Charmer, the Warlock of High Society, the man who never slept in the same bed twice. He had been beautiful and cruel, and he had worn his freedom like a crown.

Now, he wore it like a noose.

He placed his hand on the handle. The wood was damp.

"Please," he murmured to the silence. "Let this be the one."

He turned the handle and stepped through.

The transition was violent. The cold vacuum of the Void was instantly replaced by heavy, humid air that tasted of salt and algae. Gravity slammed into him.

Caspian landed gracefully on a cobblestone quay, his boots making a soft *thud*.

He opened his eyes.

He was standing in a city that was drowning. Buildings of gothic stone rose from emerald-green water, their foundations slick with moss. Canals replaced streets, traversed by slender boats that glided silently through the mist. It looked like Venice, but warped by high magic. Bioluminescent vines crawled up the clocktowers, and the water glowed with the runoff of potion-brewers.

Caspian checked the Compass. The needle was steady. It pointed east, across the Grand Canal.

She was here. She was alive.

A ache bloomed in his chest—the phantom pain of a bond he had severed in another life. He remembered Prime Lyra. He remembered her standing in the rain outside his estate, begging him to acknowledge the pull between them. He remembered laughing, telling her that "fated mates" were a fairy tale for people too boring to date around.

He remembered finding her body three days later. A severed heart. The magical backlash of rejection had killed her.

"I’m here, Lyra," Caspian whispered to the humid air. "I'm going to fix it."