I don’t even bother turning off the lamp when I give up on sleep.
The ceiling over my bed might as well be a blank page. I’ve been staring at it long enough to trace every crack in the paint. The wards in my door and window hum at the edge of my senses, a low, steady buzz like distant power lines.
My scar won’t stop throbbing.
It isn’t sharp pain, just a tight, insistent pull under my sternum. Nyra’s mark feels restless, like it wants something. Every time I roll over, it flares and settles, flares and settles, a heartbeat that isn’t quite mine.
I try breathing exercises. Counting backwards. Replaying Elara’s lecture, Knox’s voice at my ear in the bar, the glimpse of movement near the woods on the walk home.
Nothing helps.
The room feels too small. The hum of the wards sounds too lou
