The next morning arrived not with birdsong, but with groans.
The sun streamed mercilessly through the villa's wide windows, stabbing straight into Nero's skull. He stirred beneath the blanket, clutching his head. The unusual-eyed knight was used to battle, pain, and exhaustion—but hangovers were a new enemy entirely.
Across the room, Adam was sprawled like a corpse on the couch, one arm dangling to the floor, muttering incoherently about "lutes" and "rigged strings." Lux, ever the composed one, was seated upright in an armchair… though the dark circles beneath his silver eyes betrayed the fact he hadn't slept much either. A glass of water rested untouched at his side, as if mocking him.
Nero groaned, forcing himself to sit up. "We were… supposed to train this morning."
Lux let out a dry laugh, rubbing his temple.
"Yes. But unless you want to collapse mid-sword swing, I suggest we admit defeat."
