The void within the throne is empty, formless, bright-black space — or the very absence of it, perhaps.
The darkness is blinding, the boundless silence excruciatingly loud.
Everything is as it is and as it is not, as it ever wasn’t and ever always was.
The people inside — tiny motes, vast as planets — float, fall, fly, for a thousand years, and an instant.
The nothing starts to feel cold. Swirling, shifting white dominates the vision of the tumbling few. Fierce wind bites at their flesh.
They awake on solid ground, deep in an endless expanse of snow.