Like ghosts, the trees shimmer, fade, solidify, and then fade again as Hector progresses. Raindrops ping off his armour, the drizzle turning into a steady downpour. Thunder and lightning continued to rage above the canopies, and whatever poor illumination he had from the sky before, he no longer has. His feet find a beaten track through the forest, void of any other prints. But as he walks along with it, the trees lose their translucency, becoming fully solid. 

I'm going the right way.  

There’s no way for him to tell how long he’s been walking. Hector feels no hunger, no thirst. His legs have yet to tire, though he is beginning to feel the hint of a strain in his calves. The only indication of time passing. But when he finally sees the light, just at the edge of the forest, at the end of the trail, he forgets his discomfort in an instant.

It’s just a speck from where he is. A speck that grows larger and larger as his pace picks up from a walk to a jog. Twigs snap beneath his feet and a branch smacks his face in passing. Hector barely notices.

Soon, he’s shielding his face with his forearm from the cold sting of wind, rain and leaves. Blinding white rays stretch out towards him, like beckoning fingers.

He trips as he crosses the line where the trail ends, and the clearing begins. The tip of his boot catches on a loose rock. In a tangle of metal and limbs, he goes tumbling down a small hill and comes to a heavy stop with his face half-buried in the sand.

The smell of the sea hits him hard. It’s a reminder of Ourea, without all the city smog. No doubt about it—he’s at a beach of some sort.

Hector groans as he sits up. No hunger or thirst, but, oh, the place offers pain aplenty. 

Straining his neck upward, he squints through the raindrops. Without the thick canopies to obscure his vision, the sky is spread out before him in all its indigo, moonlit glory. Lightning snaps through the clouds like a jagged whip. The stars are out, but their constellations are unfamiliar. 

He wipes the water and sand from his face, chest tight. There, on the pale shore, stood a black tower. Pure obsidian, sleek as a chess piece.

Another laugh bubbles out of him, as it did when he first realised he was wearing a knight’s armour. Figurative princesses waiting to be saved in their figurative towers. 

Damien always did have a funny sense of humour.