45
Firian
“Sit up,” said a voice above him, brusque but not unkind.
Firian angled his arms so he could push himself up without opening his eyes. The blanket and pillow were damp with sweat. At the movement, his head swam. The room tilted when he pried open his eyes.
“That’s it. Have this.”
Firian took the cup of water Belik offered him. He brought it to his clammy lips. The cold liquid made him shiver. Had water always been so tasteless? It was as though his senses were heightened and dulled at the same time. He was always feeling—the weave of the blanket, the ache of his bones, the piercing light in his eyes—but some of his senses had left him completely. Time, for example. He had no idea how long he’d lain there. It had to have been more than a couple days.
At least Belik was takin
