The threshold was a jagged line between the world Cherion knew, the world of biting Northern wind and the lingering scent of Zarius's expensive, cold-iron cologne, and something that felt distinctly like the inside of a rotted lung. Cherion stepped in first, his boots sinking into a carpet of what felt like damp moss and centuries of accumulated dust.
In his original life, the "other" world he tried very hard not to think about, fortune tellers were a specific aesthetic. They were neon-lit store fronts in busy city districts, smelling of cheap vanilla candles and air-conditioned desperation. They were "scams" with card readers and Venma QR codes.
But this? This was on a whole different level. No LED lights anywhere. Just the weak, greasy orange glow of fat-dripping candles that somehow made everything darker instead of brighter.
