The accountant in Victor’s brain slammed the gavel down. Hard.
The impact rattled his teeth.
He flinched, burying his face deeper into the pillow. The pillow smelled like expensive detergent and ancient dust. The gavel came down again. This wasn’t a headache. This was a judicial review of every poor life choice he had made in the last twenty-four hours.
He opened one eye. The morning light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains was offensive. It was too bright, too cheerful, and it judged him.
He was alive. That was the first surprise. He wiggled his toes. They were still attached. He took a breath. His lungs didn't rattle with tuberculosis or magical corruption. He was just... hungover.
Severe dehydration. A rhythmic throbbing behind the left eye. The distinct taste of copper an
