The pitch white of his eyes slowly receded. The color returned. Not the soft, familiar blue of the sky, but a terrifying, crystalline shade—two chips of arctic ice. Roman Lionhart opened his eyes fully.
The silence was a thick, suffocating blanket. It pressed against his eardrums, far heavier than the sound of the seal shattering moments before.
He lay on the cold stone floor, the lingering warmth from the evaporated ice only a ghost against his skin. He lifted his hand. It was perfect. No scars. No roughness. The skin was smooth, utterly flawless, like a porcelain statue freshly fired.
He pushed up. Slowly.
