[???]
Guinevere clicked her tongue in irritation—not merely at the pain she felt, but at the fragility of her form in the face of such a thing. Her hand pressed firmly against Typhon's mane, not just to steady herself, but to remind herself that she was still tethered to this world, that she still existed within its laws. The Divine Beast rumbled softly beneath her.
Her journey to the ninth plane—to glimpse the veil of that reality—was never one paved in light or guidance. No, the path was Death-kissed, and she had known this intimately. To even graze that higher reality, she had chosen a method both desperate and obscene: she had sabotaged her own vessel. She had targeted her most vital organs—her lungs, her liver, her heart—wounding herself to bring herself within the edges of mortality. The brink between Life and Death, she believed, was where the boundary to the ninth plane lay thinnest. And so, bleeding and trembling, she brought herself there.
