The first sound was not cheering. It was silence.
The kind of silence that presses against the ears like water, thick and endless, broken only by the low crackle of torches and the faint hiss of wind cutting across the gorge.
Ryon floated inside it, unsure whether he was still lost in the dark. His limbs felt heavy, foreign, like stone had been poured into his veins. Breath came shallow and jagged, scraping through him with each inhale, each exhale a blade dragging against his ribs. For a long while, he was only aware of pain—layered, shifting, biting pain that reminded him he was still tethered to flesh.
Then, the ground returned. Cold, solid earth beneath his cheek, damp with blood and dew. He blinked once. The blur of torches smeared across his vision, their flames small against the bruised expanse of sky above. He blinked again. Shapes began to resolve: the curve of men standing shoulder to shoulder, their bodies forming a ring, their faces pale in the weak light of dawn.
