Elias's eyes snapped open.
Blue light flooded his vision—sharp, jarring, like a severed cable sparking loose. He braced for the usual weight of Veyren's infant body—the numb limbs, the oversized head, the bite of wood against his palm where the rattle usually sat. But something was wrong. The moment he tried to turn his head, the effort collapsed.
His neck didn't move. Muscles locked. Jaw clenched.
It was like being fused in stone.
He focused straight ahead. A shimmering wall stretched before him, translucent but firm, its surface pulsing with faint blue veins—slow, rhythmic, like a heartbeat trapped behind glass.
I'm stuck in something?
The thought hit fast. Cold. It bled into another voice—Dot's, blurred by distance but panicked, echoing from Kikaru's point of view.
He's trapped. Encased. Not waking.
His palms grew damp.
Not Veyren's.
His.
