Dean woke up like someone had left him in the wrong museum overnight.
For a few seconds he didn't move. He just stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly, waiting for his brain to accept what his eyes were seeing: the gilded molding so intricate it looked hand-drawn, painted panels that were either original or so perfectly restored they might as well have been, and a chandelier above him that could have been classified as a small national treasure.
Then he remembered.
Alamina. Arion. Otto and Minerva. The wing. His wing.
Dean let out a quiet breath and sat up, the sheets sliding off him with a softness that felt offensive. The bed was too wide. Too heavy. Too comfortable. It felt like it had been engineered to keep him captive through sheer luxury.
He swung his legs off the side, bare feet sinking into a carpet that didn't feel like fabric as much as it felt like someone had domesticated a cloud. He stared at it for a second, like it might explain itself.
