The chill of Harrow's thanergy wraps around her bones and tightens, and Moiraine blinks, then blinks again.

She looks past the familiar rush of the weave in her fingers at the tabletop in front of her, both solid and decaying at once, both states feeling balanced and right. People move around the room, and she is aware of them in ways that she never has been before, from the subtle patterns of death-after-life among the Milliways dead that differentiates them from the living (and yet dying, all at once) here.

"Strange," she manages, aware as never before of the burning brilliance of saidar in opposition to the avalanche of universal destruction outside the window. "This is so very strange."