The God of War Calen Storm

It’s Real

Light.

Soft, warm, and golden—like dawn distilled into silk.

It caressed Calen’s face like a mother’s touch, filtering through gossamer curtains that fluttered in an unseen breeze. Slowly, his consciousness floated upward from a dark, dreamless sea. Each breath he drew felt lighter, cleaner, as though the air itself were imbued with magic.

He stirred.

His body responded with ease, but it felt… different. Too different. His limbs no longer ached. The heavy weight in his chest—the constant tightness he had carried for years—was gone. He sat up with a sharp breath, startled by how effortless it was.

The bed was nothing like any he had known.

Its frame was of carved ivorywood shaped into wings and spirals. The sheets were a blend of midnight blue and silver, impossibly soft, threaded with strands that shimmered like starlight. Beneath his fingers, the texture felt almost like woven wind. Above him, the ceiling was not stone, but a dome of radiant crystal that sparkled with drifting conste