The bridge of golden silk was not a solid thing; it was a frequency, a shimmering highway of intent that felt like stepping on the surface of a drum while it was being struck. Below them, the Atlantic was a blurred streak of charcoal and white foam, moving at a speed that should have torn the air from Hailey's lungs. But within the curve of Baphomet's wing, the air was still and smelled of ancient rain. He walked beside her, his hooves clicking against the light as if it were the finest marble. He didn't look at the horizon; he looked at her, his amber eyes tracking the way the wind whipped her hair into a frantic halo.
"We are crossing the 'In-Between' in its rawest form," Baphomet shouted over the celestial hum. "The Temple is no longer where we left it, Hailey. It has felt your strike against the Syndicate. It has felt the Weaver's freedom. It is... expanding."
