Seraphine POV
My head felt like it had been used as a drum in a Titan marching band.
I groaned, the sound catching in my throat as I blinked against the soft, flickering orange light hitting the canvas of the tent. For a hot second, I forgot where I was. I expected to see the dull ceiling of my old apartment or maybe the sterile white of that hospital room from my vision.
Instead, I smelled woodsmoke, roasted meat, and the faint, lingering scent of ozone and dragon scales.
I sat up, and my entire body staged a protest. My muscles weren't just sore; they felt like they'd been unplugged and plugged back in the wrong way. I looked at my hand. The yellow ring was gone—hidden back beneath the skin, but the spot where it lived felt warm, pulsing with a low, rhythmic hum that served as a reminder: That wasn't a dream, Ehra. You actually went nuclear.
I crawled to the tent flap and pushed it aside.
