Waylon stirred awake, his mind sluggish as it clawed its way out of the dark. His cheek pressed into the rough weave of the cot, the faint scent of sweat and stone grounding him as he blinked against the dimness. For a moment, he lay still, confusion swirling—his last memory was the relentless grind of the gravity formation, the crushing weight, the black specks swallowing his vision. I must've passed out, he thought, a groan escaping as he shifted. The blanket tangled around his legs felt damp, clinging like a second skin.
He rolled onto his back, squinting at the narrow slit in the wall where sunlight spilled through—a soft, golden glow hugging the horizon. Guess it's been a few hours, he figured, judging by the sun's low perch. His body ached, a dull echo of yesterday's torment, but as he pushed himself up, something felt… off. Not bad off—good off. He stretched his arms overhead, expecting the usual morning creak in his joints, the stiffness that always lingered after a bad night. It didn't come. His muscles moved smooth and easy, a lightness threading through his limbs he'd never known back home—not even after a rare good day.
Frowning, he swung his legs off the cot and stood, rolling his shoulders experimentally. No twinge, no protest—just a steady, unfamiliar strength humming under his skin. His golden eyes widened as memory flickered—the pulse, that sudden rush of heat from his chest, surging through him like a lifeline right before everything went dark. That's gotta be it, he thought, pressing a hand to his sternum. The warmth was still there, faint but steady, a quiet thrum like a heartbeat's shadow. He curled his fingers against his borrowed tunic, a vow forming in his mind, sharp and resolute. I'm gonna start understanding you. Whatever you are.
Barefoot, he padded to the doorway, the cool stone a shock against his soles as he stepped outside. The morning air hit him crisp and clean, carrying the faint tang of dew-soaked grass. A few yards off, the man—Gorrin—sat slouched in a wooden chair, a thin wisp of smoke curling from the pipe clenched between his teeth. His broad frame dwarfed the seat, robes pooling around him like spilled ink, and the faint crackle of the dying fire beside him punctuated the stillness.
Waylon trudged over, the grass tickling his feet, and cleared his throat. "Good evening," he said, voice still rough from sleep. "Thanks for carrying me in after I passed out."
Gorrin didn't look up right away, just puffed out a lazy ring of smoke that drifted skyward. Then he grunted, pulling the pipe from his mouth with a calloused hand. "Evening?" His voice was a low growl, edged with dry amusement. "It's dawn, boy."
Waylon froze mid-step, his brows shooting up. "Wait—what?"
Gorrin tapped the pipe against his knee, ash fluttering to the ground as he fixed Waylon with a steady, piercing stare. "You've been out cold for about sixteen hours now. Snored through the whole damn night."
"Sixteen—" Waylon's jaw slackened, his hand drifting to the back of his neck as he processed that. Sixteen hours? He'd never slept that long in his life, not even after the worst flu knocked him flat. His gaze darted to the horizon again, the sun's gentle climb confirming Gorrin's words. "Holy shit," he muttered, half to himself.
Gorrin stood, towering over the chair as he knocked the last of the ash from his pipe and tucked it into his robe. "Keep training like yesterday," he said, brushing off his hands. "I'll be gone today—got business. Since I won't be here to save your scrawny ass like last time, I weakened the formation a bit. Don't overdo it."
Waylon scratched his head, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I won't. But, uh… I feel better than I ever have. Like, seriously good."
Gorrin huffed, a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, his grizzled beard twitching. "Hmph. Don't get cocky, kid." He turned away, reaching into the air with a casual flick of his wrist. A faint shimmer rippled, and a small, curved object appeared in his palm—bronze, rune-etched, glinting faintly in the dawn light. He brought it to his lips and blew, a sharp, low note cutting through the stillness.
Waylon frowned, tilting his head. He didn't hear much beyond that initial sound—no echo, no shift in the air—but then a distant scratch rolled in, deep and resonant, shaking the ground beneath his feet. His chest tightened, that warmth in his core flaring hot and wild, and a primal fear seized him, locking his knees. His breath hitched as he looked up, eyes wide, expecting some winged nightmare to crest the mountain.
Instead, a shadow swept over the hill, massive and swift, blotting out the rising sun. A rush of wind roared down, flattening the grass and tugging at Waylon's tunic as a giant bird descended from the sky. It was breathtaking—feathers a riot of red and purple, shimmering like flames caught in the dawn's glow, its body dwarfing the houses he'd known back home. Its wingspan could've stretched across a football field, and talons the size of swords gouged the earth as it landed, kicking up clods of dirt. The beast's head tilted, fixing Waylon with a single, gleaming eye, and a low screech rumbled from its throat, vibrating through his bones.
"What the hell is that?" Waylon yelled, stumbling back a step, his voice cracking as he gaped up at the creature.
Gorrin smirked, stepping forward to pat the bird's massive beak with a gentleness that clashed with his rough edges. "This is Cillia," he said, his tone softening, a rare warmth threading through it. The bird nudged him back, feathers ruffling as she let out a softer chirp, almost playful. "Missed you too, girl," he murmured, running a hand along her sleek neck.
Cillia's head swiveled toward Waylon, nostrils flaring as she sniffed the air. Her eye narrowed, a sharper screech splitting the morning, her gaze darting between him and Gorrin. Waylon froze, heart slamming against his ribs, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Gorrin chuckled low in his throat, a sound that rolled like gravel.
"I know," he said to her, like they were sharing some private jest Waylon wasn't privy to. "That's why we're heading to town for a bit. Gotta figure this out." Cillia dipped her head—a gesture that looked eerily like a nod—and Gorrin moved with a light hop, vaulting onto her back with an ease that belied his bulk. He settled between her shoulders, gripping a ridge of feathers as he glanced down at Waylon. "No slacking off while I'm gone, kid. Keep at it."
Before Waylon could muster a reply, Cillia scratched at the ground, her talons carving deep furrows. She raised her head high, unfurling those massive wings with a snap that sent a gust tearing across the hill. With a single, powerful leap, she launched skyward, the force knocking Waylon back a step as her wings beat the air. Dust and grass swirled in her wake, and he shielded his eyes, watching as she climbed higher, Gorrin a dark speck against her vibrant plumage.
Waylon stood rooted, mouth slack, his golden eyes sparkling with a mix of awe and excitement as Cillia shrank against the dawn sky. The wind settled, leaving only the faint hum of the fire and the distant trill of birds oblivious to the spectacle. He exhaled a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. "A freaking giant bird," he muttered, half-disbelieving. "This place just keeps getting wilder."
His gaze dropped to the circle of stones a few yards off, the pale crystal glinting in its groove. The warmth in his chest pulsed faintly, a quiet nudge, and he squared his shoulders. Gorrin and Cillia might be off chasing answers, but he wasn't about to sit idle. No slacking, he thought, a grin tugging at his lips as he stepped toward the formation. Whatever that pulse was, whatever this world had in store, he'd figure it out—one grueling step at a time.
The sun crept higher, casting long shadows across the hill as Waylon slotted the crystal back in. The air hummed, and he braced himself, stepping into the circle. The weight hit—lighter than yesterday, a steady press rather than a crushing blow—and his knees held firm. He shifted into the stance, back straight, feet planted, and took his first step, the grass crunching beneath him. His body sang with that newfound ease, the burn in his calves a dull whisper instead of a scream. He noticed the difference—how the formation didn't threaten to flatten him—and grinned despite himself, a flicker of defiance sparking in his chest. Let's see what I'm made of, he thought, and kept walking, each step a quiet rebellion against the ants, the weakness, and whatever fate had dumped him here.