After being forcibly pulled through the portals—each one a swirling maw of crimson and shadow that spat them out without ceremony—the couple found themselves in a new and unforgiving world.
A scorching hot desert stretched to every horizon. The ground beneath their feet was cracked baked clay, pale orange and ochre, fissured like the skin of an ancient beast. Waves of heat rose from the earth, distorting the air into shimmering curtains. In the sky above, an artificial sun blazed—too bright, too relentless, hanging at a fixed point with no intention of setting. There was no breeze, no cloud, no relief. Only heat. Only silence.
But neither Gabriel nor Lilith paid the temperature any mind.
They stood face to face, perhaps twenty meters apart, on a dune of fine, burning sand. Their clothes were immaculate—not a speck of dust, not a bead of sweat. The desert's fury was beneath their notice.
Both wore the same expression: smug satisfaction, barely contained.
