The fog is lighter now. Something warm brushes the back of my hand. A weight, steady and solid, is pressed against my side.
I can’t open my eyes yet. My limbs are heavy. My thoughts even more so. There’s a flicker of memory just beyond reach. Something cold and sharp.
Woodsmoke and damp cloves linger in the air. My body responds before my brain can catch up, my fingers blindly curling toward the warmth beside me. A thumb brushes my knuckles.
I try to turn my head, but it’s like my neck has been stitched to the pillow. Panic hums beneath the surface, dull and aching, as if I’m trapped in someone else’s dream. A cold sweat breaks out across my nape, trickling slowly down the side of my neck.
I try again—eyes, arms, anything—but my body won‘t obey. It’s like I’ve been pinned to the bed by an invisible force.
The last thing I remember is snow, running, and colliding with something.
Antlers—not imagined. Real. Towering and backlit by moonlight.
Two sets of hands: one too gentle, one too rough.
I remember screaming... calling for someone.
Then—heat.
Fur.
A voice I recognize, though I can’t remember why.
Saelûn.
The word echoes somewhere behind my ribs. It doesn’t belong to English. It belongs tohim.
He found me. Somehow, he found me.
I inhale shakily. My lashes flicker—the world blurs.
And then—his face.
Closer than I expected. His eyes are wild, fractured. He doesn’t speak. He just presses his forehead to mine.
He’s quivering.
I try to speak, but all I manage is a rasp. “Andrik?—”
“Saelûn,” he rasps. “Thalûn... I would have tornThala’vrenopen to find you.” (All of existence.)
The words curl around me like armor.
I try to ask what they mean, but I can’t get the question out.
My gaze drifts down: his knuckles are bruised, gashes streak down his chest, and blood drips slowly from his antlers.
“Are you hurt?” I whisper.
He laughs without sound. The shape of it hums against my skin like a melody. “You were unconscious, and you’re asking about me?”
I try to nod, but my neck protests.
He brushes a hand through my hair slowly. The rhythm of it lulls me under again—but I fight it. I don't want to fall asleep. Not yet. Not when everything feels like it’s unraveling.
My throat burns. I swallow, but it doesn’t help. My tongue feels swollen, like it’s too big for my mouth.“How long have I been asleep?”
His hand stills, his voice softens, “Not long.”
