Byung blinked hard, the world still spinning from the teleport. One second he was standing in the torn-up earth near the tunnels, dust choking the air, Seraphel's lightning crackling behind him. The next second he was here—right in the middle of the settlement square.
The familiar smell hit him first: wood smoke from the cooking fires, fresh-cut grass from the training fields, the faint metallic tang of goblin-forged iron. The low wooden buildings with their slanted roofs, the wide dirt paths worn smooth by hundreds of feet, the small market stalls still open even though the sun was low. Everything looked the same, yet somehow brighter, warmer, more real than he remembered.
