Elian found himself lying on the cold, wet stone of a damp alleyway. The familiar scent of rotting garbage and the distant hum of city life surrounded him. A low growl reached his ears, followed by the rapid panting of a dog. Something rough and wet brushed against his face, pulling him from the edges of sleep.
His body felt heavy, as though he had been dragged here by some invisible force. Groaning, he rolled to his side, rubbing his face with one hand. "Buddy, stop it. I want to sleep," he mumbled, his voice muffled by exhaustion.
But the persistent licking on his cheek didn't cease. Elian grumbled again, swatting weakly at the dog's rough tongue. "Come on, Buddy, stop it," he muttered, finally opening his eyes.
But what he saw made his breath catch. The alley, the dog, the tattered beggar's clothes on his body, everything was wrong. He should have been in the pavilion. He should have been... dead?
