The morning after everything feels strangely ordinary, and that might be the hardest part to adjust to, because my body still carries the echo of heat and exhaustion even as the packhouse resumes its routines with quiet determination. I wake to light filtering through the curtains and the distant sounds of movement in the corridors, boots on stone, muted voices, the clatter of mugs, and for a few seconds I lie still, waiting for my body to betray me again. It doesn’t.
The bond hums low and steady beneath my ribs, present without urgency, and I take a slow breath before sitting up. My muscles protest, stiff and sore, but the pain is manageable, honest, the kind that fades with movement instead of escalating into something consuming. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rest my feet
