The minutes passed.
Ezren lay still, the cold earth pressing against his bruised body. Pain pulsed through every limb—sharp in some places, dull in others—but always present, always insistent. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees, gritting his teeth against the stabbing ache in his ribs. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, each one a struggle.
Bit by bit, he forced himself upright. His legs trembled beneath him, barely able to hold his weight. But he didn't stop. He wouldn't stop. Stumbling forward, Ezren dragged himself toward the rabbit's limp body, the small creature still where it had fallen.
He dropped to his knees beside it.
He didn't cry.He didn't speak.He was just... tired.
So very tired.
A long sigh escaped him—half relief, half defeat. He stared at the rabbit, its stillness a stark contrast to the storm still raging inside his chest. The silence of the forest pressed in, heavy and absolute. No birdsong. No rustling leaves. Just the whisper of wind through the trees and the soft creak of old wood shifting somewhere above.
But the rabbit meant food.
And food meant survival.
That was enough.
With hands that shook uncontrollably, Ezren began to gather what he could—dry twigs, crumbling bark, bits of brittle grass. His movements were slow, clumsy. His fingers were scraped raw and stiff with cold, but he worked anyway, teeth clenched, face pale beneath the bruises.
Time blurred.
It might have been minutes. Might have been hours. Ezren had long since lost track. His world had narrowed to the raw pain in his palms and the rhythmic motion of stick against stick. Over and over again, he scraped them together, sparks refusing to come. His hands stung. Blisters tore open. Still, he kept going.
The forest watched in silence.
Then—a spark.
Ezren froze.
A curl of smoke rose from the dry grass nestled between the sticks. His breath hitched. Carefully—so carefully—he leaned in, shielding the fragile ember from the wind with cupped hands. He fed it slivers of bark, thin strips of dried moss, blowing gently to coax it to life.
Another breath. Another wisp of smoke.
Then—flame.
A flicker of orange. Small. Shaky. Alive.
Ezren stared, wide-eyed. Disbelief warred with exhaustion on his face. He almost didn't believe it. But the fire was real. It was his.
A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Finally," he muttered hoarsely. "They really did make it look easier in the videos."
The fire caught, growing slowly as he fed it more fuel. Twigs first. Then thicker branches. The warmth kissed his skin, a gentle contrast to the day's unrelenting pain. The shadows danced around him, flickering across the trees and underbrush like ghosts awakened by the light.
He didn't waste time.
With unsteady hands, Ezren took the rabbit's body and cleaned it with a hunter's care—clumsy, imperfect, but functional. He skewered it with a sharpened branch, holding it carefully above the flames.
The smell came first.
Rich. Earthy. Comforting.
It wasn't much. Barely a mouthful. But it filled the clearing like a promise—one he hadn't dared believe until now.
Ezren sat back, his arms resting across his knees, the firelight painting his bruised face in warm orange and soft gold. His body still ached. The weariness hadn't left him. But the fire was burning. The rabbit was roasting. And he was still breathing.
For the first time since waking in this strange world, Ezren let himself exhale fully.
Not in relief. Not in triumph.
Just… to breathe.
And for now, that was enough.