When Grey awoke, the world felt distant, as though he were rising through layers of mist both real and imagined. His body remained in a seated posture, legs folded beneath him, hands resting lightly atop his knees. The chill of the mountaintop seeped into his bones, yet his skin burned with the remnants of battle. Thin curls of pale mist drifted around him, forming spirals that slowly unraveled in the dawn breeze.
His breath was uneven. His chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling motions. A faint trail of blood dried on the corner of his lips, smeared from where he had coughed in his unconscious state. His robes, once sturdy, were torn in several places, revealing patchwork wounds that glimmered faintly as they healed. Flesh knitted together as if invisible threads of wind and essence were weaving him anew.
