"The world tilted."
That was definitely the poetic version.
The less poetic—and far more accurate—version was:
Luther's brain felt like it slid off the shelf and hit the floor.
He groaned as he pushed himself upright. One eye refused to open, the other blinked like it was trying to argue with reality. His hand drifted up and gently patted his skull, flinching with every touch as if afraid his head might detach.
"Why…" he croaked, "…does my head feel like a hammer had unresolved emotional trauma and chose me as its therapist?"
A tiny cough answered him.
Liliana.
She knelt before him, lowering herself to match his eye level. Her fingers brushed debris off his shoulder with delicate precision.
"Are you alright?" she asked softly.
"No," he groaned. "Yes. Maybe? My head hurts. I think someone hit me."
He glared at his own chest.
"Probably the sword. It has a pattern."
The demonic sword necklace gave an offended tch.
