"I can help."
The voice was rough and soft at the same time.
The previously anxious and irritable group turned to look at the talking pig.
Ren's hand moved first. His finger rose, trembling, pointing at Iron like a man who had seen a ghost and was trying to convince himself he had not. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Did," he said, his voice cracking, "did that pig just talk?"
Iron tilted his head. The gesture was slow, deliberate, utterly unconcerned with the crisis unfolding in the human's mind. His golden eyes blinked once.
"Clearly," the pig said, "I am speaking. You are hearing me. This is not complicated."
Ren stared. His face cycled through several expressions in rapid succession, confusion, denial, acceptance, denial again. He took a step back, his hand hit the stone wall. He looked at the wall, he looked at the pig. He looked at the wall again.
"This is still an illusion," he said. "It never left."
"That is incorrect," Iron said.
