Arzhen's eyes cracked open.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. Vaulted stone, carved with faded murals of gods he could no longer name. His vision swam for a moment, then settled.
The delirium that had gripped him for what felt like weeks had finally loosened its hold, leaving behind a strange clarity and a bone-deep exhaustion that pressed him into the mattress like a weight.
He blinked slowly. The air smelled of incense, myrrh and something floral, maybe dried lavender, and old dust that had settled into the mortar of the walls over decades.
Beneath that, the faint metallic tang of his own sweat and the herbal bitterness of whatever medicines had been forced down his throat. His mouth was dry, tongue thick.
Sunlight bled through the high windows, staining the chamber in shades of amber and deep crimson. Sunset, then. He had lost the entire day. Perhaps more than one.
