Her soul finally arrived in a new realm... but calling Sienna's Soul Realm a place was an insult to language itself.
It was no Soul Realm but a wound that had been carved into a very huge realm of nether and death itself.
It was the suffocating void between heartbeats — the small, impossible space between two adjacent moments where the laws of existence had been pried open along a long ragged seam and left to fester.
The seam had not closed in seventeen years. Maybe it would not ever close.
Time did not flow here so much as it bled, each second arriving already half-decayed, already whispering the shape of the next wound it would become.
The realm did not contain the wound... the wound was the realm, and the realm fed upon it with the slow, patient hunger of a parasite that had learned to love its host.
