That night, Ulrich woke slowly.
For several seconds, he did not move.
The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of a single lamp near the bedside. The pain remained, but it had changed. It was no longer the all-consuming agony that had dragged him through the journey from Hiddlestone. The physicians' treatment, the restorative ointments, and several hours of unconsciousness had taken the edge from it.
His crimson eyes opened.
They were calmer now.
Less fevered and less strained.
Ulrich drew a slow breath and tested his body carefully.
His chest still hurt. His ribs protested when he shifted. The stump of his left arm was wrapped tightly beneath fresh layers of bandages, and a dull phantom pain pulsed through the missing limb. The dark veins caused by the serum had not vanished, but they had receded slightly beneath the physicians' ointments and mana treatment.
His body had survived.
Over the past days, he had endured one disaster after another.
