Time began to move again, slowly, like grains of sand slipping through the neck of an ancient hourglass, each second stretched thin across an endless void. For Sylvaris, the world no longer existed. There was no sky. No sound. No pain. Only the stillness of pure white stretching infinitely in all directions, a space stripped of meaning, where even light seemed to forget what it was meant to reveal.
His body floated in that emptiness—broken beyond recognition, as if it had been torn apart and discarded for a thousand years. Bones shattered, skin burned, soul frayed—but somehow, he remained alive. Not through will. Not through strength. But as if some forgotten power refused to let him go.
