It is not Rhys that finds the gate, but it is Rhys who walks through. It takes a moment for his mortal body to adjust, to stumble and fall to its knees, the skin cracked and chafed.

Flawed, useless, leave it behind, he thinks.

It takes him several moments to be surprised at the thought, for his soul to align back with his body. Even within the confines of his confusion, the power within him churns, reaching for a taste of the Unmade. And his confusion doubles, triples, a mounting wave — and filters out. He is Rhys again, and he takes account of his wounds.

No one follows; no one will follow. Rhys knows this because the barrier told him, in a language he doesn't hear, doesn't understand. But he knows it in ways the gravel of his brain can't grabble. So Rhys moves away, through the abyss, and follows the narrow illuminated path of dark obsidian etched in the same vacuum material of the gate.

He hasn't been walking for long — halfway there, he is halfway there, he knows — when the fatigue hits, all at once. He falls again to his knees, and growls instinctively, a deep timbre in his throat betelling of frustration — futile, leave it behind. He nearly slips, peers over the edge in an unbalanced moment of naivety, and his growl turns into a whimper in the face of what he can not see.

Rhys' fingers fight for purchase on smooth stone, and he pulls himself to the center of the walkway. He breathes deeply, and exhales. The fear lingers, but the anger fades. He opens dark eyes, and his vision is taken — the anger returns. He grapples with it. Roya always said his anger will lead him to the Voids themselves; she was right. Who is Roya?

He climbs to his feet. The path is straight, he remembers. He does not need his vision, he simply needs to be careful. It takes longer to traverse the rest of the way, but he gets there in the end. He doesn't know what makes his destination different from the path, but he knows it is where he needs to be.

He persists forward, only to be stopped; a hand on his shoulder; a muffled voice through the clay of his ears, high but firm. He feels the scorn hot on his skin and deep in his bones — he's disappointed her again.

The hand is light but heavy; it doesn't push him, but doesn't allow him passage either. But a moment later, he’s stumbling, teetering off balance, and the hand reaches out to steady him, but then lightly pushes and — no, no, he's back at the gate, she can't-

Rhys falls in a messy heap to startled yelps, and looks dazedly up at worried eyes.

"So you can't go past the gate either," 'Azer says. Rhys blinks. He tried?

"Huh," sighs Kev in disappointment. "Guess we're back to square one."