His eyes opened.
No glow. No light. No system notification.
Just breath.
Ragged. Cold. Real.
Damien inhaled once—and the air scraped down his throat like broken glass. Sharp, thin, metallic. Not the sterile air of a facility, not the heavy mana-tinged atmosphere of a chamber, but something far older. Raw.
His cheek pressed against something hard—stone, maybe. Damp. Coarse.
He didn't move right away.
Let the moment settle.
Let the silence speak.
A wind crawled through the air—slow, whispering. It didn't howl. It dragged. As if the world itself had grown tired of screaming.
He exhaled.
"…Not exactly the cradle I was promised," he murmured.
Then he moved—just a twitch of the fingers at first. Dust clung to his skin like ash. Fine grains, old as bone, cold as the breath of something that had never learned how to live.
His muscles ached. Not from pain. From being held too long.
