When Rowan drifted back to consciousness, the first thing he noticed was how wrong everything felt. The air was too clean, carrying a faint fragrance of sandalwood instead of the sharp stench of blood and rotting garbage he had grown used to in the slums during his working hours.
His body sank into softness he hadn't known for quite a while—a bed, far too fine for someone like him, dressed in sheets smooth as water and gentle against his skin.
His lashes fluttered but he didn't bother opening his eyes.
His head throbbed like someone had split it open with an axe so instead, he buried his face against something warm and solid, rubbing against it as if chasing comfort.
"Mmm… maybe I'm just dreaming," he mumbled under his breath, voice muffled and hoarse. "But this is really nice…"
For once, the nightmares weren't there.
