Sable woke the way she always did after Grimridge decided to remind her that pain was a language it spoke fluently: slowly, unwillingly, pulled upward through sensation before memory could catch up.
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 ignore. The second was her ribs, every breath a careful negotiation with bruised muscle and hairline damage. The third was the heaviness behind her eyes, the residue of whatever the healer had given her to keep her conscious without letting her scream herself empty again.
She was still in the 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 full morning bustle, too steady to be night. The room smelled of herbs, clean linen, and the iron scent stone never entirely released.
