III-1: A Dark Return
The first time Greg woke, he wasn't sure if he was alive.
Everything around him was smudged and soft, like the world had been painted with watercolors and then left in the rain. His vision blurred, the edges of shapes bleeding into each other in a way that made his stomach twist. He tried to breathe deeply, but the air caught in his chest, rattling against ribs that felt tender and bruised.
Pain radiated outward, a dull ache that settled into his bones and pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
My… my arms… They wouldn't move.
He tried, straining against the invisible weight that pinned him down, but his body ignored him like gravity had decided it was done playing fair. The panic came quickly, a sudden, sharp wave that left him gasping. His breath rasped in his throat, thin and dry, like sand on skin.
Above him, a shadow leaned close. The outline solidified slowly, the blur resolving into the shape of a woman with red hair. Not bright, but deep, like leaves after they fell out of the tree first thing in Fall. Her face was soft but unfamiliar, stirring something half-formed in the back of his mind—an almost-memory that slipped away the harder he reached for it.
"You're not real," He croaked, his voice a hoarse, pitiful scrape against the quiet. It sounded weird, like it wasn't coming from him.
The woman didn't answer right away.
Her lips curved into a faint smile, sad but patient, and she leaned closer, her hair brushing against his cheek like the whisper of a breeze. Her hand came down to rest against his forehead, cool and steady, and for a moment, it soothed the fire smoldering in his skull.
He tried to speak again, to ask something, but the words crumbled in his throat. Her lips moved, shaping sounds he couldn't hear, and then everything dissolved. The world folded in on itself, dragging him back under before he could even blink.
When he opened his eyes again, he was still drowning in shadows.
The second time, the world didn't rush at him all at once.
Instead, it trickled in, one sensation at a time: the faint glow of a lantern somewhere to his left, its light flickering weakly like it might give out at any moment. The dull hum of voices just out of reach, muffled and distant. His body groaned under its own weight, every nerve burning with a soreness that was root deep in his muscles.
His head lolled to the side, weakly like a baby, and he caught sight of movement.
A girl with bright red hair stood just a few feet away, her back turned as she whispered to someone he couldn't see. The rhythm of her words was soothing, like a song you didn't know the words to. He strained to make out what she was saying, but the syllables slipped through his fingers like water.
"Who…?" His voice came out cracked and faint, more breath than sound.
The woman turned sharply, her green eyes locking onto his with startling intensity. For a moment, her expression was caught in the space between relief and hesitation. She stepped closer, the muted light catching the freckles dusting her nose and cheeks.
"You're awake," She said softly, her voice lilting with an accent he couldn't place. "Don't try to speak, M'lord. You've done enough for a lifetime."
"M'lord?" Greg wanted to laugh, but it came out as a strained wheeze. "Don't… d-don't call me that. Just Greg."
She didn't seem to hear him, or maybe she ignored him.
Either way, the effort of forming words was too much, and he felt himself slipping again, the edges of his vision darkening. He wanted to ask her name, to understand why her voice felt so nice.
But exhaustion crept over him, relentless and heavy, and he gave in without a fight.
Next came fur.
Greg's eyes fluttered open just long enough to catch the vague outline of something massive crouched beside him. His mind jumped to Ash, but this shape was bigger, broader, with a presence that seemed to fill the room.
It let out a low, rumbling growl, a sound that should have been threatening but felt oddly reassuring instead. A faint brush of fur against his arm sent a shiver through him, and he tried to lean towards it.
"Stay," He muttered, the word slurring as it tumbled out. He wasn't even sure who he was talking to—the creature, himself, or the empty room.
His request was met with silence, but the presence didn't leave. It lingered, solid and steady, and Greg let himself fall back into the darkness.
He saw flashes of green fields and blood-soaked snow, heard voices that felt both foreign and familiar, and felt the weight of a life he couldn't remember carrying.
When he woke again, it wasn't fur but feathers.
Hovering above his chest was a small, white ball of fluff, its wings fluttering as if caught in an invisible breeze. It chirped once, a high, clear note that seemed both out of place and entirely fitting.
Greg squinted at it, his head pounding as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
"What… are you?" He whispered, his voice barely audible.
The bird tilted its head, fixing him with a beady black eye.
It chirped again with a sound like "Kweh!", and Greg could have sworn it sounded offended and said the same back.
"Figures," He muttered, letting his head fall back against the pillow. "Even hallucinations get jokes now."
Sleep came for him again, dragging him into a sea of fragmented dreams.
Blue eyes blinked, slowly.
The air whispered against his skin, not cold, not warm, just there—like it was touching him on purpose. Greg's lashes fluttered, and he squinted against a strange, gentle light that filtered through the canopy of trees, the kind of light that felt more like being underwater than under the sky. The world around him was soft, hazy, unreal, like a watercolor painting someone hadn't bothered finishing.
He sat up slowly, his hands pressing into moss that squished under his palms. It pulsed faintly, like it had its own heartbeat. Okay, not weird at all. The forest stretched out around him, impossibly vast and impossibly bright, each tree more massive than the last.
Their trunks glowed faintly, and when Greg tilted his head, he could swear he saw giant faces carved into the bark as big as the tree—eyes closed, mouths curved upwards in soft, gentle but knowing smiles.
Like old photographs of his grandparents, the way they always seemed like they were in on some joke he wasn't allowed to hear.
His legs wobbled as he stood, his feet sinking into the spongy ground. "Where...?" he started, but his voice caught in his throat.
Even whispering felt wrong here, like the forest was listening.
The air itself seemed alive, carrying faint tinkling laughter that prickled along his spine. He turned his head upward, catching flashes of movement in the branches. Tiny figures darted between the leaves, wings shimmering like dragonfly glass, leaving trails of faint blue-white light in their wake.
He opened his mouth to call out, but his voice came out strangled, muffled by the dense, living silence of the place. "Help..." the word barely made it past his lips.
One of the figures paused mid-flight, its glow dimming slightly as it hovered in place. It tilted its head in a way that was unnervingly human, its tiny face sharp and inquisitive. Greg froze, unsure if he should move, but before he could decide, the thing darted closer.
It was barely bigger than his finger, its wings buzzing faintly like a hummingbird.
Definitely not tinkertech, Greg thought, a nervous laugh bubbling up in his chest.
No, it was too… delicate.
"Lost?" the thing's voice was high and sweet, like a bell ringing underwater. Greg nodded, his throat too tight for words. The little figure giggled, the sound chiming through the air like wind chimes caught in a breeze.
"Boy lost?" it asked again, tilting its head further, almost upside down. Greg nodded faster, his heart thumping against his ribs. It giggled again, spinning in a lazy loop.
"How?" the question was simple, but Greg had no idea how to answer.
Before he could speak—or even try—the creature darted away, its glow vanishing into the branches above.
The forest shifted around him, the ground beneath his feet giving a deep, low creak that he felt more than heard. The moss pulsed harder, and Greg stumbled, nearly falling as the trees seemed to stretch higher, their faces twisting and shifting, their smiles sharpening into something almost hungry.
The laughter faded, and the silence that followed was thicker, heavier, like the forest was holding its breath. Greg's breath came faster, his chest tight as he turned in a slow circle, trying to keep the shifting world around him in focus. This isn't real, he told himself, gripping his arms tightly. This can't be real.
But the air was too fresh, moss too soft, faces in the trees too alive for him to believe anything otherwise.
His head snapped up as the branches above rustled, but nothing came.
No more tiny figures, no more glowing lights. Just the creaking of wood as the forest rearranged itself around him, the trunks groaning as they grew impossibly taller. The ground beneath him seemed to breathe, the moss shifting with every step he took.
Greg swallowed hard, throat dry. "G-great," he muttered with a shaky voice..
His words barely carried in the dense air, and he almost regretted breaking the silence.
Almost.
A breeze swept past him, faint but deliberate, tickling the back of his neck. It sent a shiver down his spine, and he turned sharply, his breath catching in his throat.
He spun so fast his legs nearly gave out, his bare feet skidding against the moss that seemed to ripple beneath him like water. Before he could catch his balance, he was staring at the base of one of the colossal trees, its sheer size swallowing up everything else. The trunk stretched upward forever, its surface smooth and almost glowing, the faint light catching on faint grooves that shaped a smiling face—not carved, but part of the tree, natural and alive.
Its massive, serene expression felt like it was looking right at him, and worse, like it knew him.
Greg took a step back, but the warmth radiating from the tree tugged at him, gentle but insistent, like a hand on his shoulder urging him forward. "This is…" he muttered, his voice weak and scratchy in the thick, vibrating air. Wrong? Weird? Way too much?
None of the words felt big enough.
The tree's light pulsed faintly, a slow, steady rhythm that seemed to seep into his chest, matching the sluggish beat of his own heart.
Then he saw the door.
At least, he thought he did. The longer he stared, the harder it was to tell if the door had just appeared or if it had been there all along, hidden until the moment he noticed it. Its frame was seamless, blending into the tree like it had grown there. The handle gleamed, gold and smooth, like it had been polished by countless hands.
He didn't remember reaching out, but suddenly his hand was hovering just above it, trembling slightly.
"Don't…" the word slipped out before he could stop it, barely audible. But his hand moved anyway, fingers curling around the cool metal as if they belonged there.
The handle turned easily under his grip, and the door swung open without a sound.
Golden light poured out in a flood, washing over him with a brightness that wasn't harsh, but soft and overwhelming all the same. It wasn't just light—it was weight, pressing against him from every side, thick and alive, carrying something he couldn't name but felt like he should recognize.
He stumbled forward, blinking rapidly, trying to make sense of it.
Inside, the air itself buzzed, heavy with a strange energy that hummed low and steady, vibrating in his chest like the resonance of a bell.
The walls—if that's what they even were—pulsed faintly, their surfaces smooth and alive, glowing faintly with the same light that filled the room. It was like stepping into the heart of something enormous, something ancient, and the thought made his stomach twist.
Tiny shapes flitted through the golden air, their movements quick and chaotic. At first, he thought they were more of the fairies, but as one darted closer, he saw they were smaller still, their bodies delicate and leaflike. Their laughter was softer than the fairies', a sound that tickled at the edges of his hearing, almost musical but strange in a way he couldn't put into words. The creatures spun and twirled around him, their light leaving faint trails in the thick air, and for a moment, Greg forgot to breathe.
He stepped further inside without meaning to, the ground beneath him pulsing faintly like the beat of a giant heart. The warmth in the air seeped into his skin, sinking deeper with every step. It wasn't comforting—it was too foreign for that—but not threatening, either.
It was… something else.
Something alive, he thought, and the idea sent a shiver down his spine.
"Home," a voice said, low and quiet, but it filled the space completely, pressing against him from every side. Greg whipped his head around, but there was no one there, nothing but the golden light and the tiny, dancing shapes that laughed softly as they moved. "Home."
He blinked, and the golden glow was gone, taking the tiny creatures with it.
"Wai-" the word stumbled out of him, weak and scratchy, before the air seemed to ripple around him, stealing his voice mid-syllable. The ground shifted beneath his feet, not a violent lurch but a smooth, dizzying slide, like the world itself was rearranging around him, folding and unfolding in a way that made his head spin.
When the motion stopped, Greg found himself in a cavernous space that seemed too vast to be real. Massive machines filled the room, their surfaces bristling with gears, pipes, and strange crystalline cores that pulsed faintly with light. Steam hissed from hidden vents, and the air was heavy with the scent of metal and something sharper, something alive. The machines hummed with a faint, uneven rhythm, like a choir of distant engines that couldn't quite sync up. They felt wrong and beautiful all at once, like they belonged here but shouldn't.
He blinked again, the noise of the machines pressing against his ears, and realized with a start that his hand wasn't empty. His sword was there, solid and heavy, its weight familiar against his palm.
Except—that's not right.
He tilted the blade, the dim light catching on its surface. It shimmered, the metal alive with intricate etchings he didn't recognize. Lines of faint, glowing runes carved into the blade's surface pulsed softly, their rhythm matching the uneven thrum of the machines around him—and his own heartbeat.
"This isn't mine," he muttered, voice hoarse.
But the sword hummed in response, a low, resonant sound that sent vibrations up his arm and through his chest, like it was disagreeing with him.
Greg's grip tightened instinctively, and before he could think twice, he swung it. The blade sliced through the air with a sharp, clear note, and a wave of energy rippled outward, tearing through the thick, shadowed air around him.
The force of it pushed him back a step, and he staggered, his legs unsteady beneath him.
"What the hell—" his words cut off as he looked closer, the light running along the blade's edge shifting and flickering. It wasn't just light; it was motion, patterns threading through the sword like veins of molten gold, pulsing in time with the world around him. The sword clicked, a sharp metallic sound that startled him, and then it twisted.
The metal seemed to fold in on itself, shifting and compressing until it expanded, forming a hilt and crossguard, of silver instead of white, making the blade more focused, more dangerous.
His hand moved almost on its own, the new weight balanced perfectly as he swung it again. This time, the air around him didn't just ripple. It bent, the light distorting as the blade carved through it, leaving a trail of shimmering motion in its wake. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, everything frozen in the wake of his swing.
And then it shattered.
The first thing Greg noticed was the snow under his feet. It wasn't soft, powdery snow like the kind you see in postcards, but dense, packed, and slightly crusted over with ice.
The kind that made every step crunch like breaking glass.
He glanced down at his feat—totally normal, not the slightest bit wet despite standing in snow that should have given him frostbite by now. He exhaled, half expecting to feel the chill clawing at his lungs, but instead, his breath puffed out in a visible mist, disappearing into the air.
No cold, he realized.
The air brushed against his skin, indifferent and distant, but it didn't bite.
The dark surrounded him, thick and heavy, but not oppressive. More like a blanket draped over the world, hiding everything from view.
Except… no, not quite.
As Greg blinked, shapes began to emerge: trees with skeletal branches clawing at the sky, jagged rocks thrust up from the ground like broken teeth, and shadows that suggested distant shapes he couldn't quite pin down. The night itself seemed to shift, rearranging its pieces to let him see just enough to know how far he was from understanding it.
A sound broke through the silence—faint at first, rhythmic and steady. It took Greg a moment to realize it was footsteps, crunching through the snow. He froze, his breath catching in his throat, and turned his head toward the sound. Far off, a figure was moving through the vast whiteness, silhouetted against the faintest glow of something he couldn't place.
The figure was massive, hulking even, with shoulders so broad they seemed to block out the horizon. A huge, jagged blade rested on their back, its outline stark and unmistakable against the soft haze of the snow.
Greg squinted, taking a cautious step forward. What the hell?
The man moved with a deliberate, heavy stride, each step sinking deep into the snow but never faltering. Exhaustion clung to him, even from a distance, like the weight he carried wasn't just physical but something etched into the air around him.
Greg opened his mouth to call out, but no sound came.
His throat felt dry, the words caught somewhere behind the knot forming in his chest.
The figure stopped abruptly, his silhouette stiffening. Greg tensed, unsure whether to move forward or stay rooted to the spot. The man shifted slightly, just enough to turn his head, though his face remained hidden in shadow.
"Keep walking," the man said, his voice low and rough, like the growl of an old engine. The words rumbled through the night, cutting through the stillness without disturbing it. "Shit never stops. Doesn't get easier. You just get stronger."
Greg's mind raced, fumbling for a response, but his lips refused to move. What doesn't stop? What doesn't get easier?
The man didn't wait for him to find an answer.
Before Greg could even process the words, the figure turned and continued walking, his steps steady, deliberate. The snow rose to swallow his legs, then his torso, until only the dark line of the sword remained visible.
Then, that too disappeared, leaving Greg alone in the snow even as he tried to follow after him, the wind and snow pushing him back.
The stars were moving.
Greg's first thought wasn't awe or wonder at that or how the snow had vanished; it was something more mundane: stars don't do that.
But they were, shifting and swirling like someone had grabbed the edge of the sky and shaking it like an angry nanny with a crying baby.
He stood in an open field that stretched infinitely in every direction, his feet planted firmly in soft grass that wasn't wet or cold against his bare soles, even though it glistened as if covered in dew.
The sky stretched above him, impossibly vast, blacker than any night he'd ever seen, the dark seeming to suck out all the light around it, and making the stars shine even brighter for it. For some odd reason, he felt there were more stars he couldn't see. Even in their unfamiliar constellations, something about each and every star felt alive—watchful.
His hands glowed faintly. He lifted them instinctively, his fingers trailing faint ribbons of light as they moved. The trails lingered for a moment before dissolving, as if the air itself was swallowing them.
Not normal, Greg thought, but the surreal weight of the moment pressed against his chest, quieting the panic that threatened to bubble up.
"This is yours," a voice rumbled, deep and resonant, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Greg's heart thudded in his chest as the voice wrapped around him, filling the space. It sounded old, impossibly so, and heavy with authority—like it belonged to someone who'd ruled for so long they didn't even need to raise their voice to be obeyed.
What does that even mean? Greg wondered, but he didn't say anything.
He wasn't sure he could.
Above him, the stars shimmered and writhed, their light twisting unnaturally. At first, it was subtle—a flicker here, a faint shift there—but the changes grew bolder. Tiny pinpricks of light broke free from their fixed points, dragging themselves in long, deliberate arcs across the heavens. Constellations unraveled, their familiar shapes coming apart thread by thread until the once-orderly patterns dissolved into chaos.
The movement quickened. Stars blurred into streaks of burning light, carving frenzied paths across the darkness. Greg's breath hitched, his eyes darting from one streak to the next, trying to follow their frantic, erratic dance. The sky seemed to spiral, the stars smearing together into a blinding swirl of color and motion. His stomach turned, but his feet stayed rooted, his body refusing to move even as his instincts screamed at him to look away.
"Creation is disorder and destruction," the voice said, breaking through his thoughts. "Yet order is stagnation and death." The words echoed in Greg's chest, as if the sound carried a weight as heavy as one of those stars. "Both at their core, chaos waiting for a hand to guide it. Chaos without a will to mold it."
Just as suddenly as it had started, the spinning slowed.
The streaks of light condensed, drawing inward in deliberate, precise movements. The stars began to coalesce, their chaotic trails pooling together like spilled ink being sucked back into a pen.
His chest tightened as he watched the light fold and compress, every movement purposeful in a way that felt almost too perfect, too deliberate.
New constellations began to form, their shapes foreign and sharp, unlike anything Greg had ever seen.
Jagged lines connected stars into patterns that hummed with intent, their geometry strange yet undeniably right. The stars aligned into an order that hadn't existed moments before, and as Greg's eyes traced the unfamiliar designs, something deep within him stirred—a recognition he couldn't place.
"Yours to shape," the voice commanded, its tone shifting slightly, growing heavier with each word. "Yours to break. Yours to rule, but never yours to own."
He blinked, white light overpowering him and forcing his eyes shut.
He opened them again and a large, white chick the size of a full-grown chicken now stood in front of him, its feathers so pristine they seemed to glow even in the stark brightness of the room.
Greg blinked, squinting at the bird. The space around them was utterly blank, featureless and endless, the kind of void that made him feel like he was floating even though he could feel the solid ground beneath his feet. The chick didn't seem fazed.
In fact, it moved with an ease that bordered on cocky, its little legs bouncing forward in an awkward hop that somehow came off as confident.
It chirped once—a bright, cheerful sound that echoed strangely in the silence. Greg opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, and then closed it again. The bird chirped a second time, tilting its head as if it was sizing him up, and hopped a little closer.
There was something unnervingly deliberate about the way it moved, like it had already decided it belonged here, like it had decided he belonged here.
"You're kidding," Greg muttered, his voice sounding distant and distorted, like he was hearing it underwater. He wasn't even sure who he was talking to—the bird? Himself?
God?
The chick didn't answer, obviously, but it chirped again, softer this time, as if in response. The sound rippled through the room(?), and the air around Greg seemed to shift. It wasn't physical, exactly, but he felt it all the same—a stillness, like the room had been holding its breath and was finally letting it out.
The tension in his chest eased, and a strange calm settled over him, quiet and fragile, but real.
"Fine," he said after a moment, crouching carefully. His knees wobbled as he bent, though the ground felt steady enough. "But you better not eat all my food."
He extended his hand, and the chick hopped onto it without hesitation.
Its tiny claws barely registered against his skin, and it was so light he almost wondered if it was real. He tilted his head slightly, watching as the bird settled itself with a ruffle of its glowing feathers. Its little beak opened, and it chirped again—a happy, content sound that filled the room with warmth.
Greg's lips twitched, then stretched into a small, crooked smile. It felt strange, unfamiliar, like his face had forgotten how to make the shape.
But it was there.
And for the first time in what felt like years, Greg smiled.
The dreams blurred together, an endless tumble of sensations and half-formed thoughts. Shards of light carved through darkness, voices spilled over each other in cryptic riddles, and flashes of places—impossibly distant yet hauntingly familiar—flickered just out of reach.
Figures passed by, their faces indistinct yet oddly recognizable, like memories from a life that wasn't his.
Over it all, a name whispered again and again: Veder.
Soft at first, then louder, urgent, as if someone was trying to get his attention.
Then, nothing.
A pair of blue eyes blinked open, dull and unseeing at first, before life rushed back into them like a flood.
Greg groaned, his voice low and raw, as the dim light of the room hit him, sharp and unwelcome after the dream's endless night.
His body protested as he shifted slightly, every muscle a knot of pain and exhaustion.
It wasn't the familiar ache of a long run or a hard fight; this was something deeper, something that had settled into his bones.
His head turned sluggishly, eyes scanning the room. It was empty, the air heavy with stillness. The kind of quiet that felt too deliberate, too expectant. He blinked again, the world hazy as if he were looking at it through dirty glass.
Something was missing—no, slipping.
His mind reached for it, but it slipped through his fingers like water, leaving only a faint sense of awareness in its wake. Was it important?
His head cleared enough to realize he wasn't in a tent or lying in the snow, but in a house.
Someone's house.
The walls were plain, the furniture sparse, but it was too polished for a common smallfolk home and far from a noble's hall.
Just nice enough to feel like someone could afford more, but not enough to feel like too much wealth had been involved.
Greg blinked again, slower this time. His limbs felt heavier than they should, his chest tight and his veins burning like his blood was carrying embers throughout his body.
The world outside began to creep in—soft at first, faint echoes of something distant: muffled shouting, the panicked neigh of horses, the clash of metal against metal. The sound grew louder, sharper, cutting through the haze as he blinked, confused. What's happening?
The pounding of footsteps outside his door jolted him upright—or as close to upright as his aching body would allow. His boots were gone, his armor replaced with plain, coarse linens that hung loose on his frame. His hand shot to his chest, patting frantically. Where's my—? his pulse spiked. My stuff. My armor.
My sword!
His fingers gripped at nothing, and panic tightened in his throat. It wasn't just the lack of gear; it was the vulnerability that came with it. He felt exposed, like a crab without its shell. His breath quickened, and the room tilted slightly as his mind tried to piece things together.
Before he could spiral further, the door slammed open, cracking loudly against the wall. Greg flinched, his body tensing instinctively, muscles coiling even through the soreness. His hand shot up to shield his eyes from the sudden flood of light.
"M'LORD!"
The voice cut through the chaos, pulling his attention like a hook lodged in his chest. Gwenna stood in the doorway, her green dress streaked with red—blood, though not her own, judging by her frantic movements. Her hair, wild and bright, framed her pale, freckled face, her wide eyes fixed on him like he was the answer to all her prayers.
For a second, Greg froze.
Then his lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, slow and tired, as pieces of memory slid into place. I saved her.
"Gwenna," he rasped, voice cracking against the dryness of his throat.
She stepped forward, her movements urgent, the floorboards creaking under her. "M'lord," she repeated, her voice pitched high with desperation. "We must flee!" Her hand shot out, gripping his arm with surprising strength.
"What… flee?" Greg blinked at her, his brain stuttering as it fought to catch up.
Her words felt distant, like she was speaking through a thick pane of glass. His heart hammered against his ribs, but whether from her urgency or something else—something buried in the fog of his memory—he couldn't tell.
"What's… happening?" he managed to croak, his voice raw and weak. He coughed once, wincing as the motion sent fresh pain rippling through his chest. He chose to ignore the dots of blood that stained the front of his linens.
"Please," Gwenna said, her voice cracking. "Please—come now!"
Her fingers tightened around his arm, her grip steadying him in a way he didn't expect. There was something grounding in her touch, something that cut through the haze and brought him back down to earth.
Greg nodded faintly, the motion slow and deliberate, and forced himself to move. His legs swung over the edge of the bed, his feet meeting the cool wood floor. The world tilted as he stood, his knees threatening to buckle, but he held firm.
Gwenna stepped back, giving him space but never letting go of his arm.
The chaos outside grew louder—shouts and screams, the clash of steel, the frantic whinnies of horses.
Greg's head buzzed as his instincts kicked in, dull but insistent. His hand clenched at his side, the phantom weight of his sword haunting his grip as his nerves lit themselves on fire at the thought.
He took a shaky step forward, the floor solid beneath him despite the unsteadiness in his limbs. Gwenna's voice, sharp and urgent, guided him toward the door. The air seemed to shift as he crossed the threshold, the faint warmth of the room replaced by the sharp bite of tension outside.
The world tilted slightly before steadying under him as he stepped outside.