During his time in Limbo, Zephyr had come to realize several unsettling truths. First among them— Limbo didn't obey time.
Or perhaps more accurately— it played with it.
Days didn't pass here the way they did outside. He couldn't tell if hours were slipping by or if mere moments had stretched into eternities. His body told him one thing, but the shifting stars overhead told another.
One moment they were in one position, and the next they were in another, sleep came and went like tides— when it came at all. Hunger was more memory than need.
And then there was the way Aether behaved.
In some regions, refinement was effortless. The spatial Aether around him would surge into his core like floodwaters— refining, nourishing, expanding his hearth at impossible speeds. His pathways pulsed with clarity, and his limbs buzzed with power. He could feel himself ascending.
But then he'd take a step too far— just a step, and it would all stop.
