Lucien wakes up naked in a forest clearing, blinking against a canopy of unfamiliar stars scattered thick overhead, the grass beneath him cool and damp against his bare skin, dew already collecting along his arms.
He sits up slowly, confusion clearing in stages, one memory surfacing at a time, and then it all comes rushing back.
The bonfire, the ritual, the chanting. And then the flaming hand, the sudden yank into nothing, the sensation of falling through something that wasn't quite fire and wasn't quite anywhere at all.
He pops to his feet a little unsteadily, dusts himself off with both hands, spares three full, indulgent seconds to admire his own physique in the pale starlight, then turns to face the tree line properly, hands settling on his hips, feet planted wide in a stance he clearly considers commanding.
