For a few seconds, the entire world turns white.
Not the arena. Not Cassio. Not the crowd. Just white—so absolute that even the idea of distance disappears. I don't know if I'm still standing, if I've fallen, if Eventide is still in my hand, or if my body got erased along with the light.
Then sight starts to come back.
First it returns in black and white, in thick patches, as if someone had spilled ink across my eyes and tried to wipe it off in a hurry. Then blurred shapes arrive. The broken stone. The edge of the Oathring. The crowd's silhouettes moving as one faceless mass. Color returns last, washed-out and weak, until the blue of the Royal Sailfish and the remaining gold of my own energy begin to separate from the void.
I'm a wide step ahead of where I started.
