[Third Person].
"I'm okay," Meredith said. Then, with a small grimace, "But there's still water in my ears. And my nose."
Her grandmother nodded once, as if she had expected that answer. "I will take it out."
Next, she sat on the edge of the bed with practised ease and gestured. "Shift closer to the edge."
Meredith obeyed without question.
"Bring a bowl," her grandmother instructed.
One of the servants hurried into the bathing area and returned moments later with a wide basin.
Draven remained close and silently watched carefully.
Meredith's grandmother guided Meredith gently, positioning her head just so. She murmured low, rhythmic words—not loud enough to sound like a spell, not soft enough to be accidental.
Water began to pour from Meredith's nose first.
Meredith gasped and coughed reflexively, gripping the sheets, then groaned as more water drained—thin streams slipping free, the pressure easing.
