The first reality anchor died with a sound like screaming mathematics.
Vexara stood in the quantum foam between dimensions, her child's form wreathed in impossible geometries as she reached into the fundamental structure of existence itself. The anchor—a crystalline construct the size of a moon that kept the local cluster of realities from bleeding into each other—cracked along lines that hurt to perceive.
"There," she whispered, her voice carrying harmonics that made causality hiccup. "One less rule to follow."
The Rift Walker had been born from the ashes of Reed Thorne's little girl. Where once there had been a child who had nightmares, now there was something that made nightmares seem reasonable by comparison. Vexara had stopped trying to control her nature—instead, she had embraced it with the terrifying logic that only children possessed.
