A warm breeze brushed against his face. A field of red roses stretched beneath his bare feet, their petals swaying gently in the wind. Then, his gaze flickered upward, finding the figure of a young man standing a little far from him. He couldn't see his face but Ren knew him by heart—by soul. He didn't need to see to know.
It was unmistakably Ilyan.
The lavender strands were blown gently by the wind, and his skin had a hint of red—like always. He could never stand the summer heat.
However, Ren tilted his head, confused. He was surely lying in a field of snow—the cold biting under his skin. The iron-like scent of blood filling his lungs.
Was this a dream?
He chuckled, shaking those thoughts away. It didn't matter. He stepped forward to reach the young man.
"Ilyan," he called, gently placing his hand on the man's shoulder to catch his attention. He had been looking at the distance as if there was something beyond this place.
