Meanwhile… inside the crimson vortex… Damon was in a world of his own.
A long time ago, in the middle of a prosperous and bustling city, a blade of grass appeared. It grew quietly between two cracked stone tiles in the center of a wide plaza.
No one planted it. No one watered it. It simply existed.
The city around it was alive with noise and movement. Merchants shouted across crowded stalls. Children ran through the streets laughing. Powerful beings flew overhead like streaks of light, their robes fluttering in the wind.
Compared to all that life, the blade of grass meant nothing.
Thousands of people stepped over it every day. Sometimes they stepped on it. Heavy boots crushed it into the stone. Yet every time the foot lifted, the grass slowly rose again.
The seasons passed. Spring rains soaked the earth. Summer heat scorched the ground. Autumn winds bent the grass low. Winter buried the entire plaza under snow. Still… the blade of grass remained.
