The first thing Verus became aware of was the dull ache spreading across his body. His limbs felt heavy, his wounds sore, but not unbearable.
The second thing he noticed was warmth—far too much warmth for where he thought he should be.
The last memory he had was of snow, blood, and steel clashing in a battlefield that had turned into a slaughterhouse.
Slowly, his senses stirred, and instinct urged him not to move.
He kept his eyes shut, his breathing shallow, pretending to still be unconscious.
If he had been taken by the enemy, then knowing where he was and what his captors wanted would make the difference between life and death.
But before he could sharpen the details in his mind, a low, cold voice cut through the silence.
"Stop pretending to sleep. You've already been caught."
The voice said.
Verus's eyes shot open.
The first thing he saw was a sharp, dangerous gaze staring directly into his own.
