The first thing Adonis became aware of was the silence.
Not ordinary silence, but something primal.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was not stone and not wood and not any material he had a name for. It was smooth and subtly luminescent, the faintest gold threading through its surface in patterns that were almost organic, almost like the interior of something grown rather than built.
He lay still for a moment and analyzed his condition.
His body ached in the specific way that only follows the complete depletion of Ether reserves. Every muscle carried the memory of what it had been asked to do.
His chest was tight. His left side, where the earth guardian's compressed bedrock spear had caught him, sent a dull, persistent throb outward with each breath.
His hands, when he lifted them and looked at them, were unmarked but felt fragile in a way that hands should not feel.
Nonetheless, he was alive.
