Hajin opened his eyes beneath a ceiling that produced its own golden light.
He sat up and waited for broken ribs to object.
Nothing hurt anywhere, and even the memory of pain had retreated from his chest.
His body felt light enough to belong to a thought, and the floor beneath him held neither chill nor texture against his palms.
'This is not the ruined village, and it is not Vella's flower field.'
A vast golden chamber extended around him beneath the same patient, sourceless radiance.
Golden walls met without visible seams around a long table of polished black material, with twelve high-backed chairs set in a precise arrangement.
The air of the hall carried no scent at all.
That complete absence bothered him more than blood or smoke ever could have.
Living places smelled like something, while dead ones smelled like iron, and this hall smelled like neither.
