Adam's eyes opened slowly, blinking against the soft light filtering through the obsidian walls of the throne room. His vision cleared gradually, the haze of unconsciousness lifting like morning fog. He tried to sit up, expecting the familiar stab of pain from his wounds, but found himself moving without trouble.
His hand went instinctively to his chest, where Gungnir's point had nearly pierced his heart. The star-shaped scar was still there, but it felt different—not the angry, throbbing wound that had threatened to kill him, but a mark that seemed to pulse with quiet power.
"Easy," Mimir said, his weathered face appearing in Adam's field of vision. The ancient jotun's golden eyes held relief mixed with exhaustion. "You've been unconscious for hours. Your body needed time to process the healing."
Adam pushed himself up to a sitting position, his movements steady and sure. Every muscle felt renewed, strengthened beyond what it had been even before the battle with Odin. "How long?"
