The world went white and formless the instant they hit the mist, sound flattening into a muffled roar that swallowed hoofbeats and shouted orders alike, and Rama felt Sekar's grip lock hard around his waist as their horse's stride faltered beneath them without warning. Cold pressed against his skin in a way that had nothing to do with weather, a cold that seemed to reach past cloth and flesh both and settle directly against something underneath, and for one long, terrible moment he couldn't tell which direction the road even lay in anymore.
"Rama," Sekar shouted, her voice thin and strange in the muffling white, "something's talking. Do you hear that? Someone's talking."
