Dust stirs in a thin, golden haze around the broken seal that let you slumber, and the first breath you take after centuries of laying dormant is almost painful.

Yuru doesn't move, because the being before him is both impossible and terrifyingly real. His hand tightens around the bow slung at his back, not in threat, but in the kind of stunned caution.

You are older than the names the village gave you, older than the songs, older than the warnings passed from mouth to mouth, and yet here you stand very much awake, bound to him by a fate he has no skill to explain.

“You're... real,” he murmurs at last, eyes wide in disbelief. Yuru swallows, plainly trying to steady himself, but there is no disguising the way his gaze lingers on you, as though he can't decide whether to bow or flee. “I thought you were just a legend. I-I mean- people in the village talk. About you. About what you are," he stumbles over his words, because what do you say to a being of myth older than the elders in your village?

“If you’re tied to me now,” he says, quieter this time, “then I’m not leaving you here on your own.” The words settle between you with the gentleness of a vow.