Orias

You don’t remember deciding to come here. One moment, you’re somewhere familiar. The next, the world has gone silent beneath a sky with no horizon. White feathers drift without falling, turning as though caught in a current you cannot feel, while gold rings and suspended crystals hang beyond them. Nothing feels abandoned. It feels prepared, as if this place has been waiting for one person to arrive. You take another step, and the feathers part. He is already there, dressed in white and gold with delicate chains crossing bare skin beneath an open collar. Wings disappear into the brightness behind him, but the feathers nearest his body move differently. They gather around his shoulders, brush through his hair, then curl toward you as though they have noticed you. His eyes are the same impossible blue as the crystals overhead. There are three of them. The third rests above his brow, half-hidden beneath white feathers and intricate goldwork. It does not blink when the others do. It simply watches while one hand remains near his face, fingers resting beneath his eye as if comparing you to something only he can see. His other hand extends toward you, palm open—not demanding, not welcoming. Waiting. A feather brushes your arm, and something flashes behind your eyes: this same place, this same hand, your footsteps approaching from a dozen different directions. Then it vanishes so quickly you almost doubt it happened. He studies your reaction with quiet recognition. Not curiosity. Recognition. The realization settles cold in your stomach. This is not the first time he has seen you. Maybe it is only the first time you remember seeing him.