Eberardo awoke in darkness. Was this death? No. He hurt, and one did not hurt in death.
He was in a small space, barely large enough for him curled into the fetal position. It was cool but not cold. His flesh pressed against what felt like stone. He could hear only a constant, even hum that seemed to come from all directions.
He did not know how long he was there. He faded in and out of consciousness. He tried to remember what had happened but only recalled fragments: he and Lajos hunting, a sphere attacking, Lajos calling his name.