In Azaradan, morning arrived with pain.
It moved through Kro's body in slow, merciless waves—bitter and sharp, rising from her chest and burning upward until even breathing felt like swallowing knives. The room around her was cold, but her skin burned with fever. Her limbs felt too heavy to belong to her. Her eyelids weighed more than stone.
For a long while, she did not understand what she was fighting toward.
Then, with a great effort, her eyes opened.
Only a little.
The world came to her blurred and pale, edges swimming in and out of focus. She could not make sense of the room. She only knew that she was alive, and the very fact of it confused her. The pain in her shoulder was monstrous, far worse than the rest. It felt as though something wild had buried its tusks into bone and sinew and was still tearing them apart.
A soft moan escaped her dry lips before she could stop it.
The sound brought Kenna to her in an instant.
