Slowly—painfully slowly—the man began to move.
His shoulders twitched. The muscles of his back, broad and scarred, rippled under the grime as he planted his hands on the cold stone. With a low, guttural groan that vibrated deep in Ren's chest, he pushed himself up.
He didn't stand immediately. He rose to his knees first, his movements heavy and disjointed, as if gravity were pulling him down with double the force. His head hung low. His white hair, now matted with mud and the remnants of the swamp, fell forward like a heavy curtain, completely obscuring his face.
He stayed there, swaying slightly, like a statue that had just learned how to breathe.
"Impossible," Syris whispered, his voice tight with disbelief.
