Then Arya began to think.
This world felt real. Too real.
The warmth of the morning, the weight of his body, the sound of life moving outside the window—none of it felt like a dream. Dreams faded when questioned. They cracked under doubt. But this world did not. Every second passed with cruel consistency.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands again. Small hands. Young hands. No scars. No calluses from endless battles. No bloodstains that refused to wash away.
If this was a dream, it was far too detailed.
If it was reality, then it was impossible.
The Black Dragon's presence lingered faintly in the back of his mind like a shadow burned into his soul. Even here, even now, he could feel it watching. Not directly. Not aggressively. Just enough to remind him that nothing came without a price.
Arya slowly stood up.
For now, thinking wouldn't give him answers. Acting might.
