The light found him first.
It slipped past the thin shutters and landed right on his face, a sharp spear of morning that stabbed straight through his eyelids.
Lyan grimaced and tried to turn away. His body disagreed.
Pain crawled down his side when he rolled his shoulder. His ribs complained. His knuckles felt like someone had driven nails through them one by one. Even his jaw twinged, a dull reminder of when a fist had slipped past his guard in the apothecary.
He froze for a moment and let out a slow breath.
"...Still alive," he muttered.
(You sound disappointed.)
Cynthia's warm, amused tone brushed the back of his mind.
He cracked one eye open. The inn room was small and plain—two narrow beds, one lopsided chair, a wobbly table with a cracked basin on it. Dust floated in the bar of light like lazy spirits.
