The morning light didn't just shine; it filtered through the cracks of the gargantuan leaves sheltering Lunethra's home in a cascade of liquid amber and gold. Inside the room, the air was a thick, comforting blanket of forest aromatherapy—scents of crushed pine needles, dried lavender, and a sharp, medicinal herb that cleared the sinuses. It was a world away from the firestorm of blood and spent gunpowder they had left behind at the border of the Wailing Woods.
Dayat woke up to the sound of rhythmic thunder, only to realize it was the pounding of his own pulse against his skull. He was lying on a soft, luxurious pile of white wolf furs spread across the polished wooden floor. His body felt heavy, his limbs like lead pipes that had been rusted shut.
Beside him, Dola sat in a perfect seiza position, her back as straight as a steel girder. Her electric-blue eyes were fixed on him, unblinking, monitoring his vitals with a devotion that bordered on the obsessive.
