Five massive, interlocking oak beams stretched across the ceiling of the Kaelithar nursery. Elias had spent the last two weeks doing nothing but mapping the deep, dark knots scarring the wood grain.
He lay flat on his back, trapped beneath the weight of a thick, quilted wool blanket. The afternoon heat baking the terraced city outside pressed into the room, carrying the dry scent of clay dust and the distant, rhythmic clatter of market carts.
Elias focused his eyes on his own right hand, resting limp against the mattress beside his cheek.
He sent a clear, conscious command from his brain to his arm. Lift.
His shoulder twitched. A sharp, erratic spasm fired down his bicep, bypassing his elbow entirely. His fingers curled inward, scraping against the linen bedsheet, but the arm itself refused to rise.
