Aldwin let the silence grow, a thick, suffocating thing that the thin thread of pipe smoke tried and failed to pierce.
He broke it finally, his voice devoid of its usual academic playfulness, replaced by a careful, measured neutrality.
"It is possible," Aldwin began, "that what you saw in that space, the shards, the images of Eris, was produced by the void itself. An illusion, Soren. A projection generated by whatever consciousness occupies that gap between worlds, designed specifically to disorient you. Or to mislead you. To show you a nightmare that would tether your mind to a lie."
Soren listened. He sat perfectly still, the braided cord on his wrist catching the dim light of the oil lamp. His response was immediate, lacking even a second of hesitation.
"No," he said.
The word was a flat, immovable slab of certainty. It was the tone of a man who had already stood in the dark, weighed the possibility against the reality of his own senses, and discarded the falsehood.
