Hunger came before awareness.
Not a thought, a physical sensation, his stomach tightening, reminding him that a seventeen-year-old body couldn't stay in scholarly monk mode forever.
"Shit."
Haru stared at Vandris's journal in his hand, then looked around at the empty space of the Hall of the Dead—dust, cobwebs, forgotten objects, the diagonal beam of light that had been beautiful hours ago was now nothing but darkness because the sun had disappeared without warning.
"What the hell was I thinking, planning to stay here until the test started? What kind of stupid enthusiasm is this?"
"I need to eat."
He stood up. Stored the journal in his inventory. Stretched, bones cracking, that specific exhaustion that came from sitting on a stone floor for hours without realizing how long it had been.
He took a step toward the exit.
A hand rested on his shoulder.
Gentle. Heavy. Both at the same time, in a way that made no physical sense but every other kind of sense.
