The morning light in the Dravik estate's private sunroom was a soft, filtered gold that seemed to wash away the jagged edges of the previous night. It was a quiet, high-ceilinged space filled with sprawling ferns and the scent of jasmine, tucked away from the cold marble halls and the heavy weight of beastmen politics. For Amara, waking up here felt less like recovery and more like an awakening into a reality she had never dared to imagine.
She was propped up on a longue, wrapped in a throw made of cashmere so soft it felt like a cloud. Her shoulder was still stiff, a dull ache reminding her of the fall in the park, but the fever had vanished, leaving her clear-headed and strangely calm.
"Not another inch, young lady. You sit. You heal. You eat."
