Benard awoke with a start, his heart pounding as a mix of confusion and mild panic clouded his groggy thoughts.
The sunlight filtering through the gap in the drawn curtains was unfamiliar. He blinked in the dim, amber light, squinting at the surroundings. It was a room, that much was certain. Not his room, but a room.
Wood-paneled walls, a simple wooden chair beside a roughly hewn table, and a single window dressed in faded drapes. It resembled a standard chamber of a local inn, plain and unassuming.
But how did he get here?
Memory flashed like lightning through his foggy mind. A fight. Energy flaring. Cobblestones shattering. A man with a cold voice and the most lethal power he had ever faced.
Luke!
With a jolt, Benard sat up, the pieces fitting together in a horrifying puzzle. He remembered falling, his vision tunneling into darkness.
He should have been dead, he realized, the cold, hard truth of it chilling him. Yet, he was alive and seemingly unscathed.
