There was a sickening moment of disorientation before he rained down to earth, his consciousness pouring back into him like ice-water, making him clench his teeth against the sudden, migraine-inducing cold. All he could do was shiver, his breathing sounding loud and hollow. Emuel dreaded opening his eyes (did he still have eyes?) The repetitive booming sound he could hear must have been his heart, but when he reached out, feeling for it, he touched hot sand.

He rolled onto his back and looked into a cloudless blue sky. The sun had reached its zenith and he squinted against its harsh glare, before shielding his eyes, sitting up and looking around him.

The ground was spotted with blood and Emuel immediately checked himself, but he wasn’t wounded. Various pieces of equipment were scattered across the sand — bent weapons, crushed water flasks, torn clothing — and when Emuel picked up a shield he found that there was still an arm attached to it. Rings bedecked the fingers of the pale hand; it seemed it had belonged to one of the lieutenants from the Order of the Swords of Dawn.

“Hello?” Emuel called. “Anyone?”

But it soon became obvious that he was the only one here; a fact that he confirmed for himself by climbing a shallow rise and seeing that he was surrounded on all sides by desert.

Was this really Twilight? Looking up and seeing a sky without Kerberos, he didn’t think so.

Emuel tried to remember what had happened.

The ritual had been closed to all but the highest-ranking members of the Final Faith — not even Querilous Fitch had been invited to witness the performance — and had been conducted in a monastery high in the Drakengrat mountains. Emuel’s heart sank when he saw the location, for he had often come here on retreat, to meditate and pray in the beautiful gardens. But there was now no sign of the order of silent monks who had lived here, and the gardens had been allowed to run riot, swallowing the small chapels that dotted the grounds.