The Shimmerlands
You are lying in the softest grass in any world, and the grass is singing — a tiny glassy note from every blade the breeze touches, a hill-sized wind chime tuned to sound like calm.
You sit up. Two moons hang in a lilac sky, one silver, one faintly rose. The meadow rolls away in every direction, and in the distance you can see a forest of silver-leafed trees, and above it — you have to look twice — a road. A ribbon of pale gold light, starting halfway up the hill and rising in a lazy spiral into the clouds, as if someone had paved a path on the air itself.
Sera stands beside you with her head high, drinking the wind of her own world. The pink of her coat is brighter here. But the grey streak on her flank hasn't changed at all.
“Welcome,” she says softly, “to the Shimmerlands. Now — Vespera's wolves will already have our scent, and there are only two ways from this meadow anywhere worth going.”