Erian's awakening was slow, as if he were emerging from a heavy dream that refused to release him.
The first thing he felt was not light, darkness was the same as always thanks to his blindness, but warmth. Not the scorching heat of the sun that had punished him in the previous days, but a different kind of warmth: steady, human, almost soothing.
His skin still burned with fever. Every breath was harsh and uneven, as if instead of air he inhaled ashes. He tried to move a hand and barely managed to lift his fingers before pain spread like a spark running along a fuse.
Erian groaned, a weak, broken sound that was lost in the air.
Then he felt a gentle yet steady touch. Something damp, a wet cloth, gliding softly across his wounded skin. The contact was firm, but not cruel like the priestesses' during the rites.
Erian tensed for a moment, confused. He didn't know where he was, nor who the figure tending him might be.
