Silence, it was the first thing Veythor noticed—deafening, absolute silence. No sound of rain, no crackle of flame, not even the echo of his own breath. The world had been swallowed whole, and he with it.
He opened his eyes or thought he did. There was no light, only a faint hue of ash-grey that clung to his skin like dust. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of wet soil and something ancient that breathed beneath it. He tried to move, but his limbs felt trapped, restrained not by earth but by a strange stillness that gripped his will.
"What... is this place?" he murmured.
His voice sounded wrong and muted, as if the world itself refused to carry his words.
He glanced around; the ground rippled faintly beneath him, translucent as liquid glass. Through it, he could almost see faces... vague and shifting murmuring beneath the surface like drowned memories.
Am I dead?
