She stood in a cathedral, one fashioned idly after the Ancient Rotunda and yet larger than she could ever imagine. It stretched on in both ways forever, a great and immortal hallway, sunlight streaming in through arched stained-glass windows to rest on a soft and somehow reflective floor. With each step the floor was mashed beneath her hooves, the silken texture springing back after she moved away. The air smelled of winter cold and summer grass, a queer juxtaposition that she could not decipher as pleasant or unpleasant, comforting or disquieting; and in her peripheral vision, shadows stretched and shifted, flurrying wings and whispering voices made into darkness. More strangely, perhaps, Lilomiel was nowhere to be found—nor could she feel his insistent, nagging weight pressing on her skull. It was divine.

Nymeria knew she had a purpose, being here; that there was a reason she wandered down the endless hallways, with only blue skies around her and the world falling away. Whenever she moved towards a window, curious to see beyond this place of white and blue and gold, the window stayed away, remaining in precisely the same position no longer how long she walked towards it. One would think that in this bizarre and fantastical state of being Nym would know herself to be dreaming, but she didn't. This place—while vaguely discomfiting—was where she was supposed to be.

And so she walked, never tiring, and never approaching her destination.

Except, unbeknowst to her in this cloud cathedral, something was changing with each step she took. Age began to inscribe itself upon her cheeks, her eyes, her shoulders, her spine, her hips; she swelled and thickened into ripe womanhood, and shriveled into an ancient mare. While Nymeria felt no pain, no arthritis, nor was she even aware of the change, eventually she crumbled into dust entirely. And at that point, she, still walking and clueless, was reincarnated to youth and cherubic, flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

A shark sliced through the window. Eyes rolled back, massive and gray and ghastly, it swam silently before her, gills shuddering in the warm air. And then, without warning, it turned away and swam through the other side.

The songs began, an orchestra of whales, their haunting tunes hanging in the air.

Mildly astonished, Nymeria halted, wearing the body of her older self, a woman in her prime.

"Whose there?"