The gate was wrong.
It wasn't just the shape of it - an arch that curved too sharply at the crown, like a grin cutting into the stone of the Seventh Floor. It wasn't the color - black that wasn't black, but a swallowing absence that drank the torchlight and gave nothing back.
It was the feeling it put in Asher's bones: the old shiver that comes when the body understands it's standing at the lip of something that wasn't made for mortals.
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