Grace
I wake up to warmth.
Not the sterile heat of the infirmary, not the chill of stone walls or the damp of the mill. This is different—soft, steady, alive. The sheets beneath me are thick and smooth, the scent of pine and smoke clinging to the air like memory. My body aches, but it’s a distant throb now, dulled by healing magic and rest.
I blink slowly, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.
Where the hell am I?
I don’t remember being moved from the hospital.
Whose room is this?
Because it definitely isn’t the one I’d been sleeping in since I got here.
The walls were paneled in deep mahogany, polished to a dull sheen that catches the firelight without gleaming. Above my head, the wall is painted a deep burgundy with elaborate wooden accents. Heavy tapestries hang between the window
