The first thing Jin felt was the floor.
It was cold and hard and smooth under his cheek. Stone, not carpet. There was no coffee soaking into his shirt. No typing. No voice asking him if he was okay.
He opened his eyes.
The Hall of Mandates stretched out above him, quiet and dim, the long table and its map just where he'd left them. At the far end, set into the back wall, the Sword glowed softly, a long thin shape of pale light. Beside it, Mercy shone its quiet gold.
He was home. Or close enough.
Jin tried to sit up and immediately regretted it.
Everything hurt. Not the sharp, bright hurt of a fresh wound, but a deep, heavy ache that seemed to sit in every muscle he had. His back. His shoulders. His arms, especially his arms. It felt like he'd spent the last few days carrying something far too heavy for him and had only just put it down. His legs shook when he finally pushed himself up onto his knees.
He looked down at his hands.
