ERIS
The first thing I realized was that the ceiling was wrong.
It wasn't the heavy, soot-stained timber of the north wing or the vaulted marble of the imperial bedchamber.
There was no scent of smoke, no distant sound of pickaxes striking stone, and most notably, no radiating warmth of Soren's body beside mine.
The absence of his heat was a physical ache, a sudden hollow in the center of my chest that felt like a premonition.
Instead, I felt grass. Real, living grass pressed against my palms and the small of my back. It was soft, lush, and impossibly vibrant, each blade providing a distinct, cool sensation against my skin.
The air was cleaner than any air in Nevareth had a right to be, untouched by the rot of the city or the metallic tang of the battlefield.
It carried a scent that shouldn't have existed: the heavy, sweet perfume of night-blooming flowers edged with a razor-sharp draft of mountain ice.
