Cain came back to himself in fragments.
Sound first—distant, metallic, rhythmic, like something vast striking something hollow. Then pressure. Then pain, blooming slowly, deliberately, as though his body were checking each nerve before allowing it to scream.
He lay on his back in rubble that was still warm. The air tasted burned, dry, and sharp enough to scrape his throat raw with every breath. Above him, the sky was wrong—stretched thin and discolored, like bruised glass. The battle had not ended. It had merely moved elsewhere, leaving him behind like a discarded blade.
Cain forced himself upright.
His muscles protested immediately. Not with the clean resistance of fatigue, but with the ugly stiffness of damage ignored too long. He planted one hand against the ground and felt stone crumble under his palm. Whatever had torn through this place had done so without restraint.
Memory came next.
