Island Prose

 Roy stood in silence, head high, waiting for the nearly faceless figure to reply and decide his fate. The featureless white that seemed to stretch infinitely on all sides of the Gate made him think of ice and cold, and he almost felt he should shiver, but in reality he felt nothing. Neither hot nor cold – nothing. It was as though the concept of temperature did not exist here.

Here, where he had come with only two-thirds of the last existing philosopher's stone, clutching it in a clammy hand, hoping it would be enough.