She follows an upward drift, current through quill and pinion
and down. The pulse from the Wrong Sky mutters through her,
shimmies in her chest, and she banks, shying a moment, before
she catches the bump of resonance thrumming along the gulley-arc
of the membranous threshold. She compacts, dart-shaped, then
punches on through.
The Change is not absolute. Her equilibrium remains and her eyes
are just as sharp here in the Darker World. But her body
lengthens, strengthens, instincts sparking brighter, and she
hones in on the first hostile rival she sees.
Her Boy wishes it. So she dives. Hunts.