Sleep had taken him like a drug—heavy, primal, absolute.
No dreams. No whispers. No pain.
Just a void where breath came slow and even, and the blood in his veins remembered how to flow without screaming.
And when he finally stirred, it wasn't abrupt.
It was a slow reclamation.
First, the feel of his own limbs—dull weight easing into awareness.
Then the breath—cool, deep, no longer ragged, no longer catching on splintered ribs or seared nerves. His lungs pulled in air and it felt like nourishment. Not just oxygen—but mana, too. Whatever had happened during that madness… it had left something behind.
Something permanent.
Damien's eyes opened.
And the world welcomed him.
Not gently. Not kindly.
But clearly.