Erian's awakening was different. Pain still lingered in his ribs and wounds, though it no longer burned with the same intensity.
Above all, a fresh, new scent reached his nose. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but Erian recognized it as one recognizes memories: damp, fresh, with a hint of greenery.
It wasn't incense, nor medicinal herbs, nor the dry salt he still remembered from the ritual. It was something else.
Erian barely managed to sit up, the effort tearing a groan from his chest. His muscles resisted and his bones felt like crystal about to shatter, but he managed to turn his head and sharpen his hearing.
There it was. The murmur of water. Not as loud as an open-air stream, but contained, as if coming from a small spring or fountain.
Simply hearing it made him swallow hard. Thirst, which had never truly left, returned insistently, stabbing at his throat.
