Sable woke the way she always did.
After Grimridge decided to remind her that pain was a language it spoke fluently: slowly, unwillingly, dragged upward through layers of sensation that reached her before memory could. The first thing she felt was her shoulder, not the sharp flare of fresh injury but the deep, grinding throb of something forced back into place and strapped there too tightly to forget. The second was her ribs, each breath a careful negotiation with bone and bruised muscle. The third was the heaviness behind her eyes, the dull residue of whatever the healer had given her to keep her conscious without letting her scream herself hoarse again.
Infirmary.
Her eyes opened and fixed on the ceiling's familiar cracks. Light filtered through the high window in pale bands, too quiet to be morning bustle, too steady to be night. The room smelled of herbs, clean linen, and iron that never fully left stone no matter how often it was scrubbed.
