Consciousness returned not as a sudden jolt, but as a slow, gentle tide rising on a forgotten shore. The first thing Leo registered was the scent. It was a rich, complex perfume of old wood, beeswax, and a faint, sweet smell like dried honey. Beneath it all was the clean, dry aroma of dust that had lain undisturbed for ages. It was the scent of a place that had been waiting.
He pushed himself up, his palms flat against a smooth, cool surface. Wood. Polished and worn with time. He expected a searing pain in his chest, the phantom echo of the agony that had consumed him. There was nothing. Not even a twinge. He took a breath, a deep, full inhalation that filled his lungs without a hint of tightness. It was the easiest breath he'd taken in a decade.
Leo opened his eyes.
He wasn't in a hospital. He wasn't in his office. He was lying on the floor of what looked like a vast, medieval tavern lobby. A high, vaulted ceiling with massive, dark wooden rafters stretched above him, disappearing into shadow. A grand stone fireplace, large enough for a man to stand in, dominated one wall, its hearth cold and black with soot. A long, magnificent bar carved from a single piece of dark, lustrous wood ran the length of another wall, its surface veiled in a fine grey dust. Tables and chairs, sturdy and well-made, were scattered throughout the space like silent, sleeping sentinels.
"A dream," he whispered, his voice sounding small and foreign in the profound silence. "A hyper-realistic, coma-induced dream."
It was the only logical explanation. His heart had given out. The paramedics had probably revived him. Now he was lying in an ICU bed somewhere, his brain weaving this elaborate fantasy as a coping mechanism.
He sat up fully and performed a diagnostic check with the detached pragmatism of a man who managed risk for a living. He patted his chest. No defibrillator pads, no surgical scars, no pain. He felt for a pulse in his neck. His fingers met warm, supple skin and the slow, powerful, thump-thump of a perfectly healthy heart. It was stronger and steadier than he could ever remember his being.
Then he looked down at himself. The tailored Zegna suit he'd been so proud of was gone. In its place were simple, comfortable linen trousers and a soft, loose-fitting cream-colored shirt. They were clothes for resting, not for closing deals.
A shiver of unease, cold and sharp, cut through his logical assessment. This was too detailed, too sensory for a dream. He could feel the slight grit of the dust on his fingertips, the cool air on his skin. He pushed himself to his feet, his joints moving with a fluidity he hadn't possessed since his university days. He felt… good. Impossibly, terrifyingly good.
His real estate agent's instincts, honed over years of assessing properties, took over. It was a reflex, a way to impose order on a situation that had none. He walked the perimeter of the room, his soft-soled shoes making no sound on the floorboards.
The craftsmanship was extraordinary. The joints of the chairs were seamless, the tables carved with subtle, intricate patterns that were almost invisible in the dim light. He ran a hand along the bar, the wood cool and smooth as polished stone. This wasn't a movie set. This was real. This place was built to last for centuries.
He looked for a source of light. There were no windows to the outside world. Instead, set into the walls were strange, lantern-like fixtures made of dark iron and a cloudy, crystalline substance. They were all inert, giving off no light. The only illumination was a pale, diffuse glow that seemed to come from the very air itself, a twilight with no apparent source.
He needed to find an exit. He needed to prove this was a construct, a room he could leave. He walked to the front of the hall, where a set of massive double doors stood. They were made of the same dark wood as the bar, banded with black iron. He placed his hands on the cold metal and pushed.
Nothing. It didn't budge. It felt less like a locked door and more like a part of the wall that had been carved to look like one. There was an unyielding finality to it.
He felt the first real spike of fear, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. He was trapped.
He spun around, scanning the vast, silent room. The silence was the most unnerving part. It wasn't empty; it was watchful. It was the silence of a place holding its breath.
"Is anyone there?" he called out, his voice swallowed by the immense space. The only answer was the echo of his own words, fading into the shadows.
He was alone. Completely and utterly alone, in a place that made no sense, feeling better than he ever had in his life, right after he had definitively died. His mind, which had always been his sharpest tool, was failing him. There was no precedent, no file, no frame of reference for this.
He drifted to the center of the room and stood there, a solitary figure in a forgotten hall. A single, perfect beam of silvery light cut down from a high, unseen window in the rafters, illuminating a circle on the floor in front of him. It was the only sharp, defined light in the entire space. He watched the dust motes dance and swirl within it, tiny planets in a tiny, silent solar system.
Then, they stopped dancing.
Slowly, impossibly, the motes of dust began to move with purpose. They swirled together, gathering into a gentle vortex. The light within the beam seemed to bend, to condense, pulling inward toward the center of the spinning dust. It coalesced into a soft, warm orb of light that pulsed with a gentle rhythm, like a placid heartbeat. It floated in the air at his eye level, radiating a profound sense of peace that soothed the ragged edges of his fear.
He stared, mesmerized, too stunned to be afraid anymore. He was so far beyond the map of his own reality that all he could do was observe.
A voice then spoke. It did not come from the orb of light, and it did not travel through the air to his ears. It bloomed directly inside his mind, as clear and natural as one of his own thoughts. It was neither male nor female, old nor young. It was the sound of stillness, of ancient stone and patient trees.
"Welcome, Master."