******************** Aiden stares, the breath locking in his throat so hard his lungs burn. The shock is a physical blow, a violent jolt that rattles his teeth and snaps his head back. It’s the specific, cold horror of seeing a ghost walk out of the grave—the dissonance between his eyes, which see Lance standing there solid and warm, and his brain, which still holds the memory of Lance’s chest going still, of the light leaving his eyes. The world tilts on its axis. "Lance?" The name scrapes out of Aiden’s throat, a ragged whisper of sound. He squints against the dim light, waiting for the image to flicker and vanish, waiting for the fever dreams of the dungeon to reclaim him. "Lance... is that you? Am I... am I hallucinating again?" Lance’s lips curve, the expression softening the harsh lines of his face, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes with joy; it’s heavy with a desperate kind of relief. He takes a step forward, his hand extending as if to touch Aiden, to bridge the gap
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