LYSANDER
I woke to unfamiliar ceiling—curved crystalline formations that refracted Winter light in patterns no Summer architect would design. Golden threads of consciousness reassembled themselves slowly, my essence still adjusting to its restoration after near-dissolution.
Void-poisoning. The moon milk. Savannah.
Memory returned in pristine clarity—the sanctuary between realms, the union that had saved me. The first such union in 553 years. A fact that should have been irrelevant yet lingered in my awareness with curious persistence.
The chamber I occupied was clearly meant for distinguished guests—elegant but cold, Winter's aesthetic apparent in the ice-blue hangings and silver fixtures. Diplomatic courtesy despite millennia of court rivalry. Practical necessity given my condition,
