He drifted in a gray half-world.

No sound.

No jungle.

No breath in his lungs.

Just the faint pressure of something heavy on his chest, rising and falling in slow, uneven waves. It took him a long time to realize it was his own breathing. Even longer to remember how to open his eyes.

Muffled voices floated through the haze. A mix of disdain, unease, and coldness.

“Still alive. Good. The commander will want to know.”

“Careful with him. If he ruptures again, we may not have warning.”

“We never even found Garricks body. Wasn’t he on cleanup in the village?”

“Not too late to neutralize him...”

“How did he slip past the perimiter undetected?”

Hands moved around him. Something cool pressed to his forehead. The smell of dried herbs and metal filled his senses.

Heghmoh’s eyes blinked open slowly.

A dim lantern swayed above him, its light dancing along the canvas walls of a tent. The ground beneath him was firm, tamped earth. Soldiers stood around him, silhouettes blurred by the fog in his mind.

He tried to sit up. Pain lanced through his back and ribs.

“Easy,” a gentle voice murmured.

He turned his head.

A scholarly, robed man knelt beside him. Pale hair tied back. Steady, intelligent eyes. A careful, almost practiced softness in his expression.

“You found me,” Heghmoh rasped.

“Yes,” the man said quietly. “At the edge of your village.”

Village. The word cut into him.

Smoke.

Bodies.

Elder Rano.

The shimmer in the air.

The surge tearing outward.

“My village,” Heghmoh whispered. “What happened to my people?”

The scholar took a slow breath. “Hmm… you happened.”

Heghmoh’s throat closed.

“We saw the eruption from the ridge,” the scholar continued. “You returned to your people. Something inside you broke open. The blast radiated outward. Everything was flattened.”

Heghmoh’s pulse pounded in his ears.

“I saw wounds,” he managed. “Blades. Arrows. They were killed before I arrived.”

The scholar placed a steady hand on his arm. “Trauma blurs memory,” he murmured. “It is common after magical surges. Fear and grief rearrange images. Sometimes your mind protects you from the truth.”

The words slid into Heghmoh’s thoughts like fog. The tent flap lifted.  A tall, precise, hard-eyed man entered. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. A black symbol was carved into the pommel, catching the lantern light before fading from Heghmoh’s recognition. Heghmoh recognized the quality of leadership in how he moved and how the other soldiers react to his presence.

“Is he stable?” the commander asked.

“For now,” the scholar replied. “But the eruption was unlike any leyline event we have recorded.”

He addressed Heghmoh again, voice lowering.

“We know this is not your fault. You didn’t choose this. We study the emerging leylines for the Concordat. Fonts of weave, expanding and shifting unpredictably. One of them recently grew beneath your village.”

Heghmoh stared numbly.

“You were directly on top of it when we found you,” the scholar continued. “But the blast… it was not from the leyline alone. It followed the pattern of a psionic surge. We believe you manifested it.”

He gestured faintly at the air.

“Do you see the shimmer? Psionic echoes sometimes respond to memory. Tell me… have you been near a leyline before?”

Flashes of the hunting party tore through Heghmoh’s mind.

Shredded bodies.

Broken trunks.

Torvak’s lifeless face.

He closed his eyes, breath tightening.

The scholar expression softened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pressure you. You’ve just experienced something extraordinary. Something traumatic. My questions can wait.” He paused. “But you are unique.”

The commander stepped closer.

“You want answers. Control.” His voice was flat but firm. “A way to ensure this cannot harm anyone else.”

Heghmoh swallowed. “What do you want from me?”

“We want to help you,” the scholar said. “Teach you to control this. Shape it. Use it.”

“You have nowhere to return to,” the commander added. “But with us, you have purpose. Discipline. And a chance to ensure this never happens again.”

Heghmoh closed his eyes. The remains of the hunting party. The elders expelling him from the village. Years of solitude. The fear of the refugees in the jungle. Pushing him away. Loss pressed into his ribs like a stone.

When he opened them, the scholar was watching him patiently. “Come with us back to Faerûn,” he said with a hint of compassion. “Let us help you carry this.”

Heghmoh hesitated. A warmth from this stranger. A welcoming. A belonging. Something he had not felt in a long time. Maybe these people could help him understand. Maybe this is where he belonged.

A vibration down his spine. The hair on his arm raised. A buzz in his ears. He suppressed the feeling.

“Ok.” He nodded.