It was not the comforting, velvet dark of sleep, but a crushing, absolute void. A pressure, cold and invasive, pressed against his eyes, his ears, his very being. Then, a sudden, violent lurch, as if falling through an impossibly vast distance, followed by an abrupt, bone-jarring halt. His breath caught, a thin, sharp gasp.
His eyes snapped open.
A haze of white, then grey, then black. His vision struggled, adjusting to the oppressive gloom. The air was heavy, viscous, clinging to his lungs with the cloying sweetness of incense, layered with something else. Something older. Faintly metallic, subtly sweet. The scent of decay.
He was standing. Solid ground beneath his feet. Not the polished floor of the Game Hall. This was rough, uneven, old wood.
A sound reached him. A low, rhythmic murmur. A mournful, almost animalistic sound. A sound like some kind of weeping.
