Vencian's eyes opened to a ceiling set close enough to count the seams between the panels.
He lay on a narrow couch with firm cushions and smooth fabric beneath his fingers, the air cool and clean, carrying a faint scent of old wood and waxed stone.
He shifted an elbow and felt walls within arm's reach on both sides, close but orderly, furnished rather than abandoned, the kind of place built to be used rather than endured.
Am I dreaming again, he thought, the question rising with a flicker of irritation as he pushed himself upright and tested the floor with his bare feet.
The irritation dulled as quickly as it came, settling into a tired acceptance while he scanned the room and let the strangeness stand without protest.
What caught him, what refused to settle, was the light.
It filled the space evenly, pale and steady, touching corners and surfaces without casting a clear shadow, and he searched for a lamp, a hearth, a window, anything that could claim responsibility.
