Darkness held him first.

  Not the kind that suffocated.

  Not the kind that swallowed.

  But the kind that waited—thick, soft, patient.

  Pyrope floated inside it, weightless.

  Detached.

  Barely stitched to reality by a single thin breath.

  Something warm pressed against his chest, syncing with a rhythm he didn’t recognize.

  A pulse not his own.

  Then—

  A breath wasn’t his.

  A shadow wasn’t his.

  A voice, ancient and grounded, resonated through the black:

  “…He stirs.”

  The darkness broke.

  Pyrope’s eyes snapped open.

  His body reacted before his mind did—ears flaring, claws tightening in panic, breath catching in his throat. He half-rose, instinctively ready to run or fight—

  A hand caught his shoulder.

  Firm.

  Unmoveable.

  But gentle.

  As Pyrope’s vision steadied, the silhouette sharpened into a towering figure covered in layered obsidian scales.

  The Dragon King.

  Sitting beside his bedside like a force of nature trapped in flesh.

  On his other side, Rhaikor Duskscale sat still as carved stone, arms folded, twin pupils tracking two different points of Pyrope’s trembling form with reptilian precision.

  The room around him glowed with a soft, golden light—electric lamps embedded along the stone walls, humming faintly with an engineered warmth. Wires disappeared into carved grooves, merging old stone with quiet future-tech. The ceiling was high, domed, reinforced with metal ribs, giving the underground space a cathedral-like silence.

  But none of that reached Pyrope at first.

  His breath came out broken.

  “W-… where—”

  His voice cracked painfully. “Where is everyone? Rowan—Lira—Tidewhisper—Anatolian—where—?!”

  The King’s hand pressed gently against his chest.

  “Calm,” he said, voice thick with command.

  “You have been unconscious for a week.”

  A week?

  The words punched the air from Pyrope’s lungs.

  Rhaikor nodded, expression unreadable.

  “Seven days, Snowsteps. After your episode, your body collapsed. It forced itself into shutdown.”

  Episode.

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  Pyrope flinched at the word.

  His ears twitched violently. Memories surfaced in broken fragments—heat crawling under his skin, cracking sounds, Severus’s voice cutting through bone, shadows splitting like glass—

  He recoiled as if burned.

  The King steadied him, applying careful pressure.

  “Your companions are alive,” he said. “In rehabilitation. Their wounds are significant but no longer life-threatening.”

  Pyrope’s breath hitched.

  His fingers curled into the sheets.

  “…alive?”

  Rhaikor’s voice softened—just barely.

  “You protected them. They survived because of you.”

  Relief didn’t wash over him—it crashed.

  Strong enough his eyes burned.

  But it didn’t last long.

  “Severus…?” he whispered, dread returning like cold water down his spine.

  The King’s expression hardened, presence shifting like a storm forming.

  “He escaped.”

  The silence that followed was heavy.

  Rhaikor added, “We tracked nothing. No scent, heartbeat, heat signature, aura, footprints. He vanished as if the ground swallowed him.”

  Pyrope swallowed, throat tight. “He’s… out there…”

  Before the panic could spiral, the door slid open.

  Soft, practiced footsteps entered.

  A rabbit hybrid in pale robes approached—tall, calm, expression steady. Their fur was a muted cream, eyes warm yet keen with diagnostic focus. They carried a metal case with small indicator lights, and their presence radiated a quiet discipline.

  They bowed to the King.

  “I am the attending healer. I’ll check his condition.”

  Rhaikor shifted aside without a word.

  The healer stepped closer to the bed. Their hand, warm and steady, cupped Pyrope’s wrist. Their ears twitched as they listened—not to sound, but to rhythm, breathing, tension, the small pulses that whispered a patient’s unspoken state.

  “You’ve pushed yourself far past safe limits,” the healer murmured. “Your body is unstable. Your mind is still in defense mode. Your aura fractured like cracked glass.”

  Pyrope swallowed.

  The healer opened their case; a faint mist escaped as temperature-lock seals released. The scent of refined herbs mixed with sterile compounds rose—a fusion of nature and future medicine unique to the Rabbit Kingdom.

  “This will help your body settle,” they said.

  Pyrope drank the cup they offered. Warmth spread instantly—down his throat, through his ribs, loosening pain tied into knots inside him.

  The healer’s tone remained gentle.

  “There is much you need to know,” they said. “Much that must be explained.”

  Their gaze shifted to the King and Rhaikor.

  “And much the two of them wish to tell you.”

  The King didn’t deny it.

  Rhaikor didn’t blink.

  The healer closed the case with a soft click.

  “But not yet.”

  Pyrope blinked, startled. “But I— I need to know. Severus— the caravan— what happened—”

  The healer shook their head lightly.

  “You are not ready for heavy truths,” they said. “Your heartbeat is unstable. Your thoughts scatter. Your body is shaking more than you realize.”

  They placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and grounding.

  “For now, you must rest.”

  Pyrope’s ears lowered. “But they know something. I can see it in their faces— there’s more, isn’t there?”

  The healer didn’t answer directly.

  Instead, they glanced at the Dragon King with quiet understanding.

  The King spoke first.

  “There is more,” he admitted. “About Severus. About your state. About the truth we sensed during your collapse.”

  Rhaikor added, voice low:

  “And about you, Snowsteps.”

  Pyrope’s breath halted.

  The healer gently stepped between them.

  “Not now,” they reminded. “Your mind is on the edge of overload. You will hear everything—after you see the others.”

  Pyrope blinked. “The caravan…?”

  “They are awake,” the healer said. “Recovering. Waiting. They’ve been asking for you daily.”

  Something warm stung Pyrope’s eyes again.

  The healer bowed slightly.

  “I know there is a storm in your mind,” they said softly. “But right now, you need to rest. Let your heart settle. Let familiar faces remind you that you are safe.”

  They moved toward the door.

  “I will call the others for you.”

  The door slid shut behind them, leaving a faint echo.

  Silence settled back into the room—thick but no longer suffocating. The lamp beside Pyrope flickered softly, humming with a gentle electric warmth that felt strangely comforting.

  Pyrope stared at his trembling hands.

  Then at the two guardians who had stayed beside him for seven days.

  He sucked in a slow breath.

  “…please… can I see them?”

  The King nodded once.

  Rhaikor immediately stood.

  “We’ll bring them.”

  As they left, Pyrope let his head fall against the pillow—breath unsteady but finally easing. His chest still hurt. His mind still burned. His memories still trembled.

  But unlike before…

  He wasn’t alone in the dark.