So.
Here he was.
Again.
     Still.
In another dimension, with a Witch Tear tethered to his core, and a sovereign stave that was not merely a weapon of the highest order, but apparently, by the definition of witches, also a higher life form.

The new distinction had done nothing to reassure him about the established procedure.

             If essence was what crossed;
       if an artefact required essence to shift —

                              what, then, of the crystal half-sphere?

                        It had shifted too. It always did.

                                                                     It shifted with him.

                                                   It shifted INto him.

                  If essence
was what crossed;
        if an artefact
required essence to shift —

                what, then,
  of the crystal
            half-sphere?


      It had shifted too.

          It always did.

              It shifted with him.

It shifted      
INto him.

Among the fractured geometries of this dimension, it appeared almost obscene in its singularity; a perfectly half-rounded shape in a realm of edges. Everything around Yves refracted and distorted, himself included. Yet here was one perfectly preserved, continuous boundary.