They stood before the Sanctum's entrance, and Azrail had the distinct impression that calling it an 'entrance' was doing the concept a disservice.
It wasn't a door. It wasn't even an opening, not in any conventional sense. It was a distortion in space where the boundary between physical reality and the mental realm had worn thin enough that you could see through it to something else. Colours that shouldn't exist swirled in patterns that hurt to look at directly. Mental energy made visible, consciousness given form.
'The threshold,' Azrail thought.
