That night, Teclos did not remember walking to his room.
He vaguely recalled pushing the door open with his shoulder. Boots still on. Belt still fastened. Shirt half-tucked and stiff with dried sweat from the heat and frost alike.
When he reached the bed, he just fell on it.
The mattress barely creaked before oblivion claimed him whole.
No tossing.
No turning.
No thoughts.
When he woke up again, every muscle in his body protested and screamed.
His shoulders burned from lifting the stones, his forearms felt useless from climbing, and his thighs throbbed from the run. He hadn't felt this exhausted since Talmir's first training.
He blinked slowly.
Birds chirped outside the window. A thin ribbon of sunlight slipped through the wooden shutters, stretching across the floorboards and crawling toward his bed like a wake-up call.
Dreading to stand up.
He rolled onto his side—immediately regretting it—and pushed himself upright with a quiet hiss.
"Shit..." he muttered to no one.
