The Ghost in the Centaur​ ⁽¹⁰⁰⁾

Awareness did not come as a sudden jolt, but as the gentle, inevitable rising of the tide. The last vestiges of the dream—the scent of pine, the echo of hoofbeats, the vast, star-dusted sky over the Barrens—lingered for a final moment, like the fading notes…

Consciousness was no longer a flickering candle in the wind, but a steady, low-burning ember. The epic landscapes of Azeroth did not vanish; they softened, their edges blurring like a watercolor painting left in the rain. The thunderous roar of the Maelstrom became the distant…

The cold, spectral woods of Tirisfal Glades and the sterile, bright hospital room existed in a dizzying, overlapping dance. Kaelen was the still point at their center, his consciousness a raft tossed between two shores. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor became the drumbeat…

The zeppelin's landing was a jarring return to gravity, the groaning of wood and steel a stark contrast to the days of silent flight. The hatch opened, releasing a wave of air that was cold, damp, and heavy with the scent of decay and pine.

The world dissolved into a monotonous, elemental expanse. The familiar landmarks of Kalimdor—the golden plains, the jagged mountains—shrank into a hazy, blue-grey line on the horizon, then vanished entirely. The zeppelin was a tiny, fragile bubble of noise and life suspended between the endless, deep…