The platform was wide enough for two people to sit without touching, yet the air still felt crowded. Humidity clung to skin that had forgotten what sweat was supposed to feel like. Every breath carried the thick scent of wet leaves, rotting wood, and something sharper underneath — the residual animal musk of a jungle that had never been meant for mortal lungs.
Wukong sat with his back against the trunk, staff resting across his knees. He wiped his forehead with the back of one hand and scowled at the moisture.
"Sweating is exhausting," he muttered.
Runar ignored him and settled into position — legs crossed, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. The simple act of holding the posture required deliberate effort. Muscles that had once moved without thought now complained. Joints ached in small, unfamiliar ways. Gravity pressed against him like a constant reminder that the body he inhabited was no longer a vessel of power. It was just flesh.
Twenty days.
