Flashes of consciousness came and went, drifting in and out like fragments of a dream. At first, they were fleeting, leaving me in a state of perpetual confusion, as though I was trapped in some kind of purgatory, condemned to exist in oblivion. Each moment of awareness was followed by an inevitable return to darkness.

But gradually, those moments grew longer, giving me the precious opportunity to form coherent thoughts. Sound began to register in my mind—a distant echo, as if I were submerged underwater and just starting to break the surface.

Then, suddenly, it was like a switch had been flipped. The fog lifted, and I no longer slipped back into unconsciousness. I was fully, undeniably aware. Even the simple act of opening my eyes felt like a Herculean task. My muscles seemed unaccustomed to functioning, as if they were waking up alongside me, sluggishly adjusting to the demands of being alive again.

Surprisingly, I found myself in a room. Not some ethereal afterlife, not a divine space of judgment, but a regular bedroom. It bore a striking resemblance to the rooms I’d seen in this world—solid and familiar. So... I was alive. The thought felt oddly anticlimactic.

Testing my body cautiously, I tried to move. I wiggled my toes, feeling a relief that flooded through me at the realization that I could still feel them. With painstaking effort, I brought my hand over my abdomen, feeling for signs of the wounds that had nearly claimed my life. I seemed miraculously intact, yet something was off.

Attempting to sit up proved futile. My abdominal muscles wouldn’t cooperate, refusing to obey my commands. They felt disconnected, foreign, as though the muscles were there but my nerves had forgotten how to move them. It seemed that healing such complex wounds came with a long road of physical therapy.

The door burst open, and I turned my head just in time to see a woman dressed in the familiar healer’s garb of the Church of Light. She paused at the sight of me, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, but quickly composed herself and approached.

When she reached the bed, she bent down slightly, her voice slow and soothing, almost as if she were addressing a small child. “My name is Rosaria. Can you tell me your name?”

It dawned on me that she was probably checking for signs of brain damage. Was I brain damaged? I didn’t feel like it, but then again, would I even know? Her patient, expectant expression made me realize she was waiting for a response. I tried to form the words, but I hadn’t realized how many muscles were involved in speaking until now. My first few attempts were failures, and I noticed her expression beginning to shift to pity.

I finally managed to croak out “Tiberius.” It took so much work I almost wished my name were something simpler, like Bob.

“How much is two plus two?” she asked, her tone still serious.

“Five?” I replied, managing a weak smile.

She laughed softly. “Close enough.” Her face relaxed, relieved by the absence of apparent brain damage. “You had lost so much blood that we worried brain damage might be a lasting consequence.”

She continued asking the standard doctor questions, assessing my awareness and reflexes. Gradually, as I struggled through my answers, I found my voice returning, the words flowing more smoothly.

“Where am I?” I asked, cutting off her endless inquiries about my injuries.

“You were brought here by your acquaintance, Alira,” she replied promptly.

A wave of relief washed over me. Alira was safe. If she had managed to bring me here, she must have survived and somehow won. My mind drifted to the machine... and the image of her hand on the crystal.

If she was here, there was no point of wild suppositions. "Where is she?" I asked.

"She left for some official business; she should be back by tonight. She spends her evenings here."

"Evenings? as in plural. How long was I out?" I asked.

"Almost two weeks," she said, pausing when she saw my shock. She continued, "You had literal holes in your body. It was decided that a coma would aid in both brain and body recovery. Any movement in the early stages could have undone our efforts."

Two weeks? The thought hit me like a wave. On old Earth, wounds like those would have been a death sentence. I owed these people my life. "Thank you for everything," I managed, feeling like words were entirely inadequate.

She looked at me with a hint of pride. "Yes, you were a particularly difficult case, but the light shone on you. No complications and no apparent cognitive damage—you seem quite lucid. An offering to the sun goddess is the least you should consider."

I stifled a groan, opting instead for diplomacy. "I'd rather thank you personally. And... consider me in your debt." I couldn’t afford to be indebted to anyone, but I figured the gesture might help.

She softened, almost amused. "All costs have already been covered." Then, as if something clicked in her memory, she added, "I should inform Lady Valeria of your progress." With that, she left.

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I stared at the ceiling, anxiety brewing. Now I was indebted to Alira's mother. Fantastic. I could imagine the stories her son had spread about me. Great first impression. Valeria would be visiting soon, and that thought made me feel queasy.

Then, like a punch to the gut, a new panic washed over me: If I was alive, then a portal had been used to get me back in time. Two weeks wasn’t enough to fully recover, even if my wounds had somehow closed.

Focus. One problem at a time. Did I still have my magic? Moving was a chore, and normal spells were out. I tried Arcane Intellect first, but my stat page just displayed Calculating under Intelligence. No luck.

Mana Shield, then. I channeled it, feeling a faint flicker of energy. Was it working? My body felt too frail to know for sure, but I could sense something. Relief flooded me, and I couldn’t help but grin.

"Thank God for small miracles," I said aloud, chuckling at the irony. Even now, that old Earth expression had a way of amusing me.

It didn't take long for a knock, then shortly after, a woman entered the room.

Even from where I sat on the bed, feeling weak and disheveled, I couldn't help but notice how flawlessly put together she was. Her dress, deep burgundy with delicate golden embroidery, fit her perfectly, moving gracefully with every step. Her chestnut hair, with just the faintest hint of silver, was styled so impeccably that it seemed impossible a single strand had ever been out of place.

As she got closer, I noticed her eyes, a piercing blue much like Alira’s but colder and more calculating, fixed on me, assessing everything with a practiced, critical gaze. The family resemblance was unmistakable, especially in the way she carried herself—an exact reflection of Alira's posture when she meant business.

“Lady Valeria, I presume,” I managed, breaking the thick silence that had descended the moment she walked in. Her eyes studied me, weighing every flaw and imperfection, and for a moment, I felt like a specimen under a magnifying glass.

“Tiberius, was it?” She finally retorted, her voice clipped and cold.

Great. Passive-aggressive right from the start. This was going to be just fantastic. “Yes,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady and respectful. “Thank you for your hospitality. I understand I owe you quite a debt.” The least I could do was avoid making this encounter even more painful, even if winning her over was a lost cause.

She sniffed slightly, as if the very air around me was disagreeable. “Yes, well, my daughter seems fond of you, so it was the least I could do.”

I knew a jab when I heard one. “Once I’m healed, I’ll do whatever I can to pay you back,” I promised. It was a bitter statement, the kind where you have to sit there and accept whatever terms are given, all while swallowing your pride.

“Bounty hunter, are you?” She asked, her words dripping with disdain. “I suppose you being away on contracts has its upsides.” Gone was any pretense of civility; she had decided to go full-on hostile.

“Look, it’s obvious you don’t like me,” I said, my patience wearing thin. She opened her mouth to cut me off, but I pressed on. “I get it, instead of a prince, you got me. You had dreams for her—grand, perfect dreams—and now you see me as the one who shattered them.”

Her face hardened further, a mix of fury and grief. “I don’t know how you convinced her to traipse around the world with you, spouting absurd tales of dead gods, but the one thing I’ll never forgive you for is being responsible for her…handicap.”

Her words sucker-punched me. “What happened?” I stammered, genuine confusion coloring my tone. “From the little I heard, she seemed fine, still going to work and everything.”

Valeria’s eyes blazed. “She can never have children, thanks to whatever happened under your watch." Her voice rose to a shout, raw and furious.

The guilt crushed me. It was supposed to be me paying the price, not her. How did everything go so wrong?

“If you really want to repay me,” she said, her voice suddenly cold and composed, “take one of your little contracts and never return.” With that, she turned and left, leaving me drowning in my own regret and self-recrimination.

When Alira returned, she found me still sitting there, tears streaming down my face. Grief was an unbearable weight pressing down on my chest, and I couldn't hide it. How could I? The pain was raw, cutting deeper than any blade ever had.

“Hey,” she called softly as she stepped into the room. Her voice, at first bright and full of joy, faltered as she saw me. The joy in her eyes evaporated, replaced by a worry that only deepened as she took in my expression.

“Mother told you…” she whispered, a note of frustration and sadness in her voice. “I begged her to let me be the one to tell you,” she added, rushing to my side and pulling me into a tight embrace.

Guilt crashed over me like a relentless tide. “I’m sorry,” I managed to choke out, trying to force some calm into my voice for her sake. “I should be the one comforting you.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured, her arms still wrapped around me. “I’ve had a little time to process it.”

“Did you at least know beforehand?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“There wasn’t much time,” she admitted, her voice shaking slightly. “But I knew there would be a high price. In the end, it was my choice to put my hand on the crystal.” Her words were steady, but I could feel the undercurrent of her pain in how she held me, the tremble in her hands betraying the strength she was trying so hard to project.

We held each other in silence, maybe her giving me time to collect myself. Her presence did make it easier.

"A walk did wonders for me," Alira said softly, her voice carrying a gentle warmth as she sat beside me. "It’s easier to grieve when you can look across the beautiful hills surrounding this place." I knew she was trying to lift my spirits, and I appreciated her effort, even if I couldn't quite match her energy.

I forced a small smile. "I can barely sit up right now," I replied, my voice weary. "So maybe in a few days." The idea of moving, of putting on a strong front, felt almost impossible in the state I was in.

She sighed, and I could hear the regret she carried. "Sorry about my mother," she said. "We actually got along well those first few days, but somehow, in two weeks, we’ve already regressed to where we were before I left." Her tone held a mix of frustration and sadness, like someone struggling to balance her own hurt with the weight of everything happening around us.

I swallowed hard, feeling the ache in my chest. "I guess we each grieve in different ways," I said, the words tasting bittersweet on my tongue. It was true; grief seemed to twist us all into versions of ourselves that we barely recognized, and sometimes it set us at odds with each other.

She looked at me, and a small smile tugged at her lips. "When did you become so wise?" she asked, the tiniest glimmer of humor breaking through her sorrow. Her attempt at lightness didn’t go unnoticed, and I wanted to answer with something clever, something that would pull us back into a more comfortable place.

But instead, I held back, not wanting to cheapen the moment with a joke or a clever remark. Instead, I simply pulled her into a hug, wrapping her in the silence that said more than words could. We held on to each other, both searching for comfort in our shared grief, knowing that healing wouldn’t come easily—but maybe, just maybe, we could find it together.