I wake slowly.
Not with panic. Not with the instinctive lurch for exits or threats. Just a gradual surfacing, like my body decided it was safe before my mind got the message.
Warmth surrounds me. Thick blankets. A mattress that doesn’t sag when I shift. Beneath it all, the low, steady thrum of warding sigils embedded in the caravan’s foundation—constant, layered, deliberate. Protection sworn, witnessed, sealed.
I blink up at the curved wooden ceiling.
Right. The Waystation.
My room.
For a few quiet seconds, I just lie there. The silence here is different from ordinary quiet. Not absence—design. Doors that close without echo. Floors that don’t complain. Air filtered through old magic and older caution.
Engineered safety.
I push up on my elbows, memories sliding back into place—dim f
