The morning broke softer than he expected. Gold light stretched through the infirmary's wide-paned windows, cutting long shapes across the floorboards. Dust drifted in the beams, lazy, real, untainted by godly mockery.
Merlin sat on the edge of the bed with his feet pressed to the cold tile. His body still ached from yesterday's walk, his first real steps beyond sterile white walls. Every joint carried a faint soreness, and yet, beneath it all, he felt stronger than he had since waking. Not strong, not whole, but… anchored.
He exhaled through his nose. 'This is mine. This body. This air. No one else is pulling the strings anymore.'
The door creaked.
Merlin expected Elara, punctual as always. Or maybe Victoria, stubborn enough to smuggle breakfast past the healers again. But the figure that slipped into the room carried neither warmth nor hesitation.
