Ezra's consciousness stirred sluggishly, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavily on him.
His mind floated in a foggy abyss, torn between the remnants of dreams and the gradual pull of reality.
Then, his eyes cracked open to the wide white ceiling.
A moment passed before the haze of unconsciousness lifted, and his mind sluggishly pieced together where he was.
A dull ache throbbed in his limbs, the aftereffects of his relentless traversal of the Madlands evident in his body.
For a fleeting moment, Ezra is lost.
Where was he?
His brows furrow as his fingers twitch against the silken fabric beneath him.
A sharp inhale.
A bed. Soft, warm.
The familiar scent.
"Hmm?"
Then it hits him—he was in Kingsmere castle.
His body tenses, a reflexive reaction to the sudden awareness that something had been forgotten.
Then, like a deluge breaking through a dam, it all came rushing back.
The Madlands. The Nascent Madmen. Their unsettling coordination.
