The first thing Kenjiro registered upon waking was an unnerving silence. The phantom echoes of battle, the screams of the dying, and the soul-crushing grief that had been his constant companions for what felt like an eternity had finally faded, leaving behind only the quiet, gentle rhythm of his own breathing. He lay still for a long moment, the softness of the bed beneath him a stark, almost obscene contrast to the cold, blood-soaked rock of the cursed shore. He was safe. They were safe. It was over.
He slowly pushed himself up, his muscles aching with a familiar, satisfying soreness. The grand, opulent suite was bathed in the soft, gray light of dawn. And standing by the large, ornate window, staring out at the waking city, was a figure silhouetted against the pale morning sky.
