Pain came first.
Not sharp.
Not sudden.
A dull, heavy ache spread through Varyan's body, pulling him upward from the depths of darkness.
His fingers twitched.
Then—breath.
Air filled his lungs in a slow, uneven gasp.
Varyan's eyes snapped open.
Dim light greeted him—soft, wavering, tinted orange. Fabric stretched above his head, stained and patched, swaying gently with the movement of wind.
A tent.
The smell of herbs, smoke, and damp earth filled his senses.
His body screamed in protest as awareness returned. He tried to move—
Pain surged.
A low groan escaped his throat.
Only then did he realize—
He was covered in bandages.
Thick cloth wrapped his chest, his arms, his side. Fresh layers soaked faintly red where wounds had not fully closed. His body felt heavier than it should have, weaker… restrained by healing flesh not yet ready to obey.
I'm alive…?
The thought felt distant. Uncertain.
He turned his head slowly. A small lantern hung from a wooden pole, its flame flickering softly. Shadows danced along the tent walls, stretching and shrinking like living things.
No battlefield.
No corpses.
No raven.
Only silence.
Varyan clenched his jaw, memories crashing into him in fragments—
Darkness.
The shadow.
The whisper.
Lightning tearing the sky apart.
And then—nothing.
His heartbeat slowed.
So it wasn't a dream.
The bandages tightened as his chest rose and fell. Whoever brought him here had gone to great lengths to keep him alive.
That realization unsettled him more than death ever had.
Varyan stared at the tent ceiling, eyes cold despite his weakness.
Why save me…?
Outside, faint footsteps crunched against dirt.
Someone was nearby.
Varyan closed his eyes—not unconscious this time, but waiting.
Listening.
Preparing.
---