The magic wakes him, gentle as the fall of golden leaves from the white-limbed trees that whisper softly above, in the glade of the ancient hero. Eyelids flicker, lift. A sky of pallid blue greets him, gilded with boughs. The glade is quiet, murmuring with the echoes of ages long-gone. He sighs, and pushes upright with a wince. Caked in rusted armor, the ancient hero screeches to a sitting position, exhales a plume of dust. Moths lift from beneath his pallid braids and scutte