June jolted upright, gasping, his hands clenching into the fabric of the cold stone beneath him.
For a second for a long, disorienting second — his heart hammered in his chest like it was trying to break free. His eyes darted wildly across the space, breath shaky, every inch of him trembling as if he had just clawed his way out of a nightmare that was far too real.
His vision cleared.
He wasn't in the war-torn fields.
He wasn't on the cracked marble floor of Veldax's court.
He wasn't wearing a Slave's Crown, wasn't bearing the weight of ancient rot, wasn't surrounded by generals and abominations and dragons.
He was in the Prism.
The cold, magic-soaked chamber, veined with pale blue and purple light.
The relic Prism.
June's fists slowly unclenched, his arms trembling faintly as he stared down at himself. His own clothes. His own body. No monstrous strength, no centuries of hardened battle scars, no kingdom, no crown.
Just him.
The trial
