LUCIAN’S POV
I woke with the taste of cold ash at the back of my throat.
For a disoriented second, I thought I was still in the forest, still walking that impossible loop of mist and twisted paths, still chasing a silver shimmer that never drew closer.
My muscles ached with the dull, protesting burn of overuse. My head throbbed, heavy and stuffed, like I’d been bludgeoned and then swaddled in wool.
I cracked my eyes open.
An office resolved slowly around me. Vaulted ceilings etched with ancient-looking sigils, tall windows veiled in pale morning light, shelves upon shelves of bound volumes.
It smelled like old parchment, mountain herbs, and ink.
I was sprawled on a narrow couch set against the far wall, boots still caked in mud, my coat abandoned somewhere out of sight.
I pushed myself upright, every joint complaining.
Memory crashed into me in jagged, ugly shards.
The barrier. The fog. The looping path.
