LUCIAN’S POV
Consciousness was a journey.
For a long time, there was only darkness—though even that wasn't entirely accurate.
Darkness implied awareness of its own existence, and whatever place I had drifted into after the island felt emptier than that.
There had been no pain there, no memory, no thought substantial enough to hold onto.
Then, gradually, something began to intrude upon the silence.
At first, it was only a voice.
Not even words—a rhythm. A cadence I couldn't quite grasp but somehow recognized anyway.
It came and went like distant waves reaching a shoreline I couldn’t see, retreating before I could reach it and returning before I could convince myself it had never existed at all.
Eventually, there were other things too.
A presence.
Warmth pressing insistently against the cold emptiness surrounding me.
The faint scent of cinnamon and old books and rain caught in stone corridors.
Something familiar.
Something safe.
