(Almera POV)
I woke slowly.
Not because I was well rested—but because my body refused to move any faster.
The ache was still there, deep in my muscles, a dull reminder of kneeling too long, standing too straight, smiling too carefully. Yet beneath it was something unexpected.
Relief.
I flexed my fingers, then my shoulders, bracing for sharp pain that never came. Instead, there was only a manageable soreness, the kind that followed healing rather than harm.
My gaze drifted to the bedside table.
A small glass vial rested there, uncapped, its contents partially used. The scent reached me faintly—warm oils and desert herbs meant to draw tension from bone and muscle.
Massage oil.
I frowned.
I did not remember using it.
Fragments stirred at the edge of memory—warmth at my back, steady pressure, a presence that had quieted the pain without demanding my attention. Not a dream. Too real for that.
My breath caught.
So, he did come, I thought.
