My eyes fluttered open, met by the gray, sloped ceiling of a room I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the luxurious guest room in the East Wing. It was functional, stark. A medical bay.
I tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea pushed me back into the pillow. My left hand was bandaged heavily, immobilized in a splint.
"Easy."
The voice came from the foot of the bed.
Guilermo was sitting there. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His dark hair was a mess, sticking up in tufts as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. He was wearing a fresh black t-shirt, but his jeans were still stained with the mud of the southern perimeter.
"You’ve been out for twelve hours," he said, his voice gravelly. "Magical exhaustion. Again."
"The wards," I rasped. "Are they holding?"
"Solid as
