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Things come here from backwards and forwards. Events occur in sideways, shockwaves happen like illnesses or car crashes. Here's where everything has been a threat or will be a threat. Where the fork in your potatoes was used to stab someone, where the blue wallpaper matches the sky on the day of his funeral. The scent of lilacs is how her perfume smells the day she leaves. Monsters can take the shape of anything, their claws becoming a song on the radio, their fangs unanswered phonecalls, their wings spreading vast over childhoods filled with  suns. Things twist here and become knives. Things turn breath into acid here. 

Magriel floats above the hundred horizons, eyes focused between everywhere and anywhere. She gently raises the crystal vial from around her neck to catch the latest tear falling from her cheek. The flames of her sword snap in the cold then hot wind. In these moments between attacks she sometimes imagines slowly emptying the vial into the wound of a man who has been shot protecting her. It is another monster, she knows, but it feels warmer than the rest.