The Healing Hall had too many windows.
That thought had survived the night.
Curtains covered most of them now, courtesy of Seraphina Seraphel's quiet war against architecture, but cloth was not the same as safety. Sunlight still leaked through the edges in thin gold knives. The glass still existed. The angle of the bed still left three possible sightlines from the opposite tower if someone owned a long-range crystal lens and a patient hatred.
Astral Zenith, naturally, called this recovery.
I called it an assassination tutorial with pillows.
My right hand rested on a folded towel beside my thigh. The fingers looked attached. That was the most polite thing I could say about them. Black veins of old Void burn crawled beneath the skin, fading at the wrist into bruised silver. When I tried to move my index finger, nothing happened for half a breath.
Then it twitched.
A pathetic little victory.
