The world snapped back into focus with a gentle, jarring lack of transition. The cold, alien sanctum, the feeling of divine pressure, the echoing threat in Alyssara's voice – all of it vanished, replaced by… warmth. A gentle, enveloping warmth that seemed to soak into his very bones, chasing away a chill he hadn't fully realized he was carrying.
He was standing in the small, perfect cottage from the first fantasy. The air smelled of old wood, beeswax, and the rich, savory aroma of the stew he had supposedly just been eating. The fireplace crackled merrily in the adjoining room. It was an immediate, immersive assault of peace and domesticity.
But this time, something was profoundly wrong.
