The dimensional transport chamber was cold. Not a temperature cold, but a deep, soul-level chill that seeped from the humming, alien machinery lining the walls. In the center of the room, a unstable-looking rift swirled, a wound in reality leading straight into the heart of the hunger world. It pulsed with a low, menacing thrum, like a diseased heartbeat.
Luna stood before it, small and impossibly brave in her simple travel clothes. She was checking the seals on her boots, her face a mask of calm concentration. But Scarlett, standing just a few feet away, could see the fine tremor in her daughter's hands. She could smell the faint, sharp scent of a child's fear beneath the ozone and metal.
