“– What do you mean?”

“For instance. I know this sounds strange. But maybe we have to understand what this reality is before it can... change, or, reveal, something, or – let us get to the place we're going; I don't know, a vague feeling I can't really verbalise, but –”

“For instance we could leave this road, try to find another way –”

“Do you think it's the road?”

“No,” said the Golden Bow.

“Hello!” He bellowed, the Sorcerer, “We get it. It's fake. The World is fake. We get it! Bring it down. Hello?” Setty, a curious mare, was interested, ear flicking, in what he was doing – but beside that nothing changed. He hung on the youth's back and contemplated fakery and failure. “We're stuck here until we die.”

Indeed – and this was the first time he'd noticed it, this place, that was apparently infinite, was also, strangely, silent.

Not a chipper of an inquisitive finch. Nor the aggressive chatting of a hyperactive burn, which was a strange word, meant river, how'd he know that – nor the – a wee one, a stream actually – nor the

Nor the wind.

Nothing. Complete stillness; vacancy, even, and waiting – as if the world itself was waiting. A vast and incomprehensible expectation waited upon the entire world. It was a matter of time; if nothing else, merely, but... no –

“Why do I think the world itself – can you feel this? This atmosphere. This – pushing dread. It's an expectation – as if the place; the place itself; consciousness – it expects something from us – do you know that? It's waiting for my mind. – or yours – I know – I'm rather self-involved, apparently – I'm a sorcerer – but perhaps your mind too, it's waiting on me to –”

“You think it's trying to... tell us...”

“– Don't you?”

Silence. That silence that was unnatural, that enveloped their souls. That made them wonder. That made them go inside.

Because apparently outside was nothing.