Consciousness returned in fragments.
First, the sound. A steady, rhythmic beeping—mechanical, unfamiliar. Then the smell. Antiseptic. Clean linen. Something floral, like the roses that grew in the castle's garden.
Then the pain.
Matt's body felt like it had been pulled apart and put back together by someone who had only seen a diagram. Every muscle ached. Every joint protested. His chest felt tight, wrapped in bandages that pulled against his skin when he breathed.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was white—not the rough stone of the ritual cave, not the dark wood of his quarters at the Tenney estate. White. Clean. Institutional.
A hospital?
No. Not a hospital. The room was too grand, the furnishings too ornate. There was a chandelier hanging above the bed, its crystals catching the afternoon light. The windows were tall, arched, looking out over a garden he recognized.
The castle. Arne's castle.
He was home.
