His eyelids fluttered open.
The world greeted him in soft stillness—dim light spilling lazily through the curtains. There was a strange pressure in his limbs, like his body had sunk into the floor and solidified overnight.
It took him a moment to realize he wasn't on his bed.
The carpet beneath him was firm, textured, unfamiliar against his skin—yet it didn't feel wrong. Almost like his body had molded into it sometime in the night. As if even gravity had decided he belonged closer to the ground.
He didn't question it. Didn't move. Just stared blankly at the ceiling, eyes glassy and still, as awareness trickled back like cold water threading through veins that didn't ask for it.
His limbs were stiff. His joints ached. His neck throbbed with a dull, nagging tension, but none of it really registered.
Eventually, he propped himself up—slow, mechanical, like a puppet remembering it had strings. His gaze lowered, and there it was.
The sword.
