Pain licked over every inch of his skin. Darkness surrounded him, pressing in at all sides. Images of eyes as black as pitch bombarded him. It was all he saw. Eyes as black as the abyss, brimming with malice and wicked hunger.
Hairan's eyes fluttered open. He was in a bed, laying motionless on his back, blinking up at the high ceilings of the bed chambers, his own bed chambers. Even without twitching a finger, he knew most of his wounds had already healed. It didn't stop the rest of his body from hurting.
His chest heaved with every breath. It hurt to breathe. He could still feel the phantom pressure of Ragnar kneeing on his chest, pinning him to the dirt.
He let out a choked sound. It was accompanied with the sound of someone flipping the page of a book. Hairan realized that he wasn't the only one in the room. He turned his head to the side and spotted his brother sitting on the chaise lounge by the window, his eyes perusing the contents of the book in his hand.
