Sora could feel as though she were slipping into a dark cloak, its tendrils of instant blackness curling around her limbs, gripping tight, holding her in place, never once granting her the chance to run. It was suffocating, endless. The blast had seemed fatal, as though it had torn away her very existence, and for a brief, aching heartbeat, she was certain it had put an end to her life completely.
Yet, in the blur before her supposed demise, the bright light she had seen was not death's final flash—it was the sun's patient gaze, piercing through the gaps of a thatched roof. And as her vision steadied, she realised she was not gone, but alive—lying on a bed inside a wooden home, the walls sturdy yet plain, though the roof above her head was still incomplete, the raw beams of golden light still revealed to her.
