Alpheo lunged back into the world of the living with a gasp so violent it tore at his throat, as if he had never took air in his life.
His chest felt heavy and restricted, as if pinned beneath an invisible masonry that made every inhalation a struggle.
His eyes darted frantically. Part of him expected the suffocating stench of the Lampianis, the cold reach of the red mud embracing him, or the merciful silence of the void bringing him to the final deep .
He almost hoped for it, to wake to the simplicity of the end, rather than this lingering, ethereal half-life.
Instead, he found Egil, waiting for him as he always had been.
His friend was perched on the edge of the table, his wide shoulders slouched with a weariness that looked heavy enough to crack stone. He was staring out the doorless entrance, watching the stillness as if waiting for a guest who was already late.
"What was that?" Alpheo's voice was a dry rasp.
