The sensation of the world unravelling, speeding up, and falling away all at once had a noticeable impact on the hound. He did not hear Throne's remarks, bar as distant, surreal echoes beneath another voice. He collapsed on his side.

He felt as though he were rolling upright, onto his chest--and perhaps he was, back in Polaris--and looking around him in some confusion. It was dark--and he felt no fear, at this; he'd always identified, in a very matter-of-fact way, with the void.

"Hello?" he tried to woof, an echo, in response.

The startling imagery of Throne dead spiked brief cold fear in him, and he tensed, half coming to his feet--but then everything shifted, and he could see him, see him toying with his magicka... It was as though time itself were coming, going, rewinding, pausing, and Black was distantly aware that someone else was controlling it. Someone was having a look, he thought, at what had happened.

He turned, brow furrowed, at the soft, here-and-nowhere "Here, like this." Before he could ask for explanation, he felt it: felt the spell shaped, properly, felt it bloom and blossom and extend toward the lamb.

Then--abrupt, and unexpected--agony. The black dog threw himself back, eyes wide, with a howl of agony; and then a rending, tearing at his face, and one eye's vision vanished-... Yet there was a presence throughout it all, a steadying rock, and with no choice he clung to it with desperate trust as he thrashed against the pain. His howl came again, shorter and choked by the shock of it.

When it was over he came back upright, rolling dazedly onto his chest. His sides heaved, his flanks trembled; his single eye blinked as he emitted a single brief and quiet whine.

And suddenly, he understood.

He blinked. Joy flickered through him; the lamb would live.

He turned toward the voice--here, there, all around--looking for her; but her whisper was fading. "Thank you," he rumbled, with very real gratitude, not for the compliment but for the knowledge she had imparted to him.

He was back, it seemed--back in the real world, lying panting in Polaris, and Throne--Throne was mended, as was he. Black mentally scrambled to commit the magic to memory. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen, anything he'd ever heard of.

The black dog looked to Throne. He opened his jaws, blinking his widened eyes (and seeing through only one of them; but it was a small price to pay, for a life), about to ask if Throne was all right.

And then, the roar ripped through the cave, and Black glanced sharply up at the Vents, and quickly rephrased his wording. He scrabbled to his feet as he did so, rushing to help Throne along, closer to the river, already searching for any cover that the scattered rocks could provide.

He said only one word, urgent, intense.

"Move."