Akhon awoke to the sound of birdsong, a sound so ordinary and yet so grounding that for a moment he wondered if everything—the reset, the struggle against Chaos, the breaking and weaving of reality—had been nothing more than a fever dream. The light that filtered through the temple's open windows painted golden bars across the stone floor, warm and inviting. Outside, he could hear the faint hum of Kaeron's market, voices haggling, laughter drifting, and the rhythm of hammers against wood. Life was returning, steady and unbroken.
He sat up slowly, feeling the ache in his bones. It wasn't a physical wound but a weight—an echo of the divine strain he had carried through the confrontation with Chaos. His body was whole, but his spirit carried scars. Yet when his gaze fell upon the familiar sight of his chamber—simple offerings at the altar, a vase of fresh flowers left by one of the villagers—he felt the rare comfort of normality.
