Void Step was not movement. It was a wound in distance asking what memory I could afford to lose.
Space was lying to me.
Not metaphorically. Metaphors had better manners.
The passage, the public hall, the Garden roots, the cracked crisis floor, the sealed Gate Eleven boundary—every direction overlapped by half an inch. Left wanted to be below. Up kept pretending it was behind me. The nearest exit stood three corridors away and also directly under my burned right hand.
This was not teleportation.
Not yet.
This was reality developing a limp.
The first time I had seen Void Step in Throne of Ruin, Cedric Valdrake used it like arrogance given movement. One breath in front of the hero. One breath behind him. Black-violet distortion, perfect posture, no cost shown because the game had been a liar with a budget.
Real Void did not move cleanly.
It asked what part of you could be misplaced.
My right hand answered by failing again.
Two fingers refused to close.
Seraphina noticed.
