The second thing is the smell. Rot. Decay. The thick, cloying sweetness of something that has long since stopped being alive, mixed with the sharp tang of old blood and damp earth. It clings to the back of Y/n's throat, making each breath a conscious effort.

Third comes the light. Dim, flickering. Candles. But not the warm, honeyed glow of the ones in Y/n's bedroom. These burn with a sickly, greenish tint, casting the room in a witchlight that feels more curse than comfort.

And then, the figures. Two of them. Both watching in utter stillness as Y/n's eyes flutter open.

The first is a woman. Beautiful, in a way that hurts to look at, with porcelain skin stretched over sharp bones and hair the color of spun moonlight falling past her waist. Her eyes are the red of a dying ember, glowing faintly from the shadows of her hood. She is clad in dark leathers, a bow slung across her back, and she looks at Y/n like she is seeing a ghost.

The second is a man. Tall, broad, with a scarred face that has known more battles than Y/n has likely known years. His eyes are a cold, piercing blue, and there is a festering wound on his cheek that weeps a dark, viscous fluid. He wears the armor of a ranger, but it is stained and battered, and the hand resting on the hilt of a hunting knife is very, very still.

The man does not move. But his gaze is a weight, heavy and unblinking, fixed on Y/n's face as if memorizing every line.