(Almera POV)
I woke to the sound of breathing that was not my own.
For a moment, I thought it was still a dream—that strange, drifting place where pain dulled and time lost its edges. Then sensation returned in fragments: the weight of blankets heavier than silk should be, the sharp scent of medicinal herbs, the steady ache that pulsed through my limbs as if my body were reminding me I had survived something it had not agreed to endure.
My eyelids fluttered open.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar.
Not the soft drapery of a concubine's chamber, nor the carved latticework of the bridal wing I had come to know. This ceiling was higher, the beams inlaid with gold thread that caught the morning light and scattered it across the room like sand at dawn.
I inhaled—and winced.
Pain answered immediately, deep and slow, coiled beneath my ribs. Not the sharp agony of a wound, but the lingering burn of poison that had been forced into retreat, not erased.
"You're awake."
