The world was quiet. Too quiet.
One of those silences before a storm, when every breath feels suspicious.
I meditated alone, cross-legged on the cold floor of the room Sylvara had lent me—a draconic sanctuary where even the air vibrated with energy.
With each inhale, pale golden filaments flooded my body. They wrapped my muscles, slid under my skin, and wound through my veins with the slow crawl of a poison you learn to love.
It was both strange and familiar: a gentle warmth rising, then that almost sensual shiver before the burn.
But every time those filaments neared my right eye… everything unraveled. The pain returned—dull, sharp, alive—like a blade twisting in an old wound.
I held on. One second. Two. Then it all blurred.
The bandage over my eye heated up, sweat ran down my neck, and my breathing snagged. It felt like a fire inside me was trying to force its way out through the scar, like a memory was clawing at the skin, demanding to be heard.
