Day 1
The first thing Ryn noticed was the silence—thick, unbroken, and somehow louder than chaos.
Then came the smells. Salt, sharp and unmistakable, clung to the back of his throat. Beneath it lingered the earthy sweetness of forest mulch and the distant tang of dried seaweed—scents that didn't belong together, yet here they mingled like old neighbors.
Somewhere nearby, something warm was cooking—stew or broth, perhaps, faintly spiced, its aroma threading through the room like a question.
Ryn's eyes blinked open, tentative. Light poured through narrow slats in the wooden walls, the air brushed with gold.
He lay in a bed—not a cot, not a hospital mattress, but a real bed. The sheet beneath him was rough-spun but clean. The blanket, thick and worn, scratched against his arms, carrying the faint scent of sun-dried linen. He flexed his fingers with care, testing his muscles. Nothing hurt. That was strange.
He sat up.
The room was modest and hushed.
