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Orion's eyelids felt heavy, as though weighted by the remnants of an unseen battle. His senses stirred slowly, coaxed into wakefulness by the distant hum of voices and the faint scent of medicinal herbs. The air was crisp, laced with the sterile sterility of a place meant for healing, yet beneath it lingered the unmistakable scent of iron—blood, dried and stale.

His muscles ached as he shifted slightly, the dull pain of bruises and wounds making themselves known. As awareness seeped into him, so did the disjointed fragments of memory—a battle against the Dark King, the clash of steel, the searing pain of defeat, and then... darkness. He struggled to stitch the scattered pieces together, but the effort sent a sharp pang through his skull, forcing him to exhale sharply.