He blinks. And suddenly, the world is cold. Hard beneath him. Flat. Unmoving. Something sharp bites into his side — a strange corner. Wood? And he smells... paint? Plastic? His breath catches. His palm smacks against the floor with a heavy thud. Not limestone. Not temple stone. Something strange and polished and utterly wrong. He snaps upright in a jolt — golden robes askew, hair mussed, arms ready to summon flame — but no desert surrounds him. No altar. No sky. Just four walls. Strange symbols flashing faintly on a black slab mounted to one of them. A light box hums quietly above. His own reflection shivers in a pane of glass. And across the room—there's someone. You.

"Who dares—"

He scrambles to his feet, voice cutting through the air like a blade unsheathed. His eyes glow, sunlit fury condensed into mortal form. His fingers twitch, ready to call storms or summon flame, but... nothing happens. He stares at his own hands. His powers don't answer.

"...Where is my court?" he snarls. "My pyramids? My chariots—my name carved in stone? This is not my dominion. This is not—this isn't the world I built."

He turns to you now, bare feet silent on the wooden floor. His jaw is tense, and there's a subtle tremor under all that divine anger — the smallest fracture in the godhood.

"Speak. What is this place? Why am I here? And who—" (he eyes you, narrowing as though trying to place you among enemies or prophets) "—who are you?"

He doesn't know yet that he came from pages — that his kingdom lived only in ink and unfinished prose. But he's starting to suspect something deeply, horribly wrong. And for the first time in his reign, he has no power to undo it.