It came in.
It didn't enter like a flow of air or gas, but like solid fragments of a nightmare. The first creatures crossed the threshold in that instant. They didn't descend with the grace of a winged predator; they fell, propelled by their own inertia and the suction of the pressure change.
Their bodies defied any biological classification known in the academy's textbooks. Some were elongated, like obsidian serpents with multiple limbs that bent at impossible, unnatural angles. Others looked like compact masses of organic and metallic matter, with surfaces that opened and closed rhythmically, as if breathing the island's oxygen-rich air for the first time.
One of these creatures slammed into the floor in a far area of the cafeteria, tearing through one of the decorative metal structures before vanishing from sight behind a column. The sound of the crash arrived with a physical delay—a dull, heavy thud that made the tiles jump.
