Scylencer woke first with a sharp breath that scraped his throat like dry leaves, his eyes snapping open to a sky that felt wrong, too close, too tilted, the world swaying as if it were hanging from invisible threads.
His body felt light and heavy at the same time, muscles numb, limbs refusing to answer him when instinct screamed for movement.
For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, trapped in one of those half-awake states where thoughts drift without order, but then the cold air brushed his cheek and he heard it.
Flap.
Not loud, not violent, just a steady, slow sound, like thick cloth being unfolded again and again above him.
Flap.
His eyes shifted, vision clearing enough to notice that he was not lying down, not standing either, but suspended, the ground far below him, shadows sliding across stone and broken earth.
