When I woke up groggy once more, the chamber's familiar haze wrapped around me like a stifling shroud—afternoon light now faded to a soft, bruised amber slanting through the heavy indigo drapes embroidered with silver griffins, their wings catching faint glimmers like forgotten stars.
The air hung thick with layered scents: sharp tang of cooling healing salves—willow bark bitter as regret, mint cutting clean through fever-sweat—and the distant, muffled clamour of palace life seeping through the thick oak door.
I took a deep breath, recalling Elaine's weird behaviour.
The servants' hurried footsteps pattering on marble halls, a guard captain's barked orders echoing faint, the perpetual hum of an empire that never truly slept.
My one good eye focused slow and reluctant, iris contracting against the dim glow, while the swollen black orb remained a throbbing void of sealed agony, crusted shut with healing scabs.
