Light crawled slowly across the floorboards, slipping through the narrow wooden slats of the inn's window like golden fingers. It traveled the length of the room in silence, cutting across the two narrow beds and illuminating the faint curl of dust in the air.
Then it landed on Damien's closed eyelids.
He opened them the moment it touched his face.
No hesitation. No yawn. Just a sharp breath in and the silent swing of his legs to the floor.
The soft sound of bare feet on wood.
He crossed the room with trained quiet, slipping into the small bathroom tucked behind a folding screen. The sound of rushing water echoed faintly, followed by the rhythmic splash of a face being washed.
Ten minutes later, Damien emerged, fully dressed, cloak clipped to his shoulders and knives already hidden beneath its folds. His silver hair caught the morning light in soft flashes as he crossed to the desk where a strange, gelatinous creature sat unmoving.
