Liam surfaced like a drowning man.
He came awake with a violent gasp, lungs dragging in air as if he had been held under black water until the world itself had forgotten him. His hands clawed at silk sheets. His heart slammed against his ribs. For one terrible second, he still felt the Gate around him: golden hands, abyssal dark, pressure digging beneath his skin, and dragging him somewhere no map had ever agreed to hold.
Then there was air. Warm, dry, faintly scented with cedar, amber oil, and flowers he did not recognize.
Liam sat up too quickly.
The room spun.
He nearly collapsed back against the pillows, which were numerous enough to be personally offensive.
A bed.
He was in a bed.
