Luke came back to himself in pieces.
First, the weight in his limbs—heavy, sluggish, as though every muscle had been replaced with damp sand. Then came the throb at the base of his skull, each beat echoing faintly in his ears. He drew in a slow breath, catching the faint scent of burning oil mixed with something sweet… maybe fruit.
He pried his eyes open, the world sliding into focus in uneven fragments.
A room. Square. Stone walls washed in the golden glow of an oil lamp on the table. The air felt warmer than the street outside, not stifling, but enclosed. His gaze drifted first to the far corner, where two men stood like shadows given weight—straight-backed, arms crossed, their eyes unmoving from him. Neither spoke. They didn't have to.
