Warmth.
That was the first thing Aria noticed.
Not the painful stiffness in her limbs or the dull ache pulsing through her ribs—but warmth. Thick blankets wrapped around her like a cocoon. Beneath her fingers was soft fabric, not straw or rough wood. The air smelled faintly of pine resin and woodsmoke, clean and grounding, nothing like the bitter herbs and damp stone of Aunt Selda’s house.
Aria blinked slowly.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—wooden beams carved with subtle symbols, a lantern hanging low and glowing softly. Panic surged in her chest.
This wasn’t home.
She gasped and tried to sit up.
Pain flared sharply along her side, stealing her breath. She cried out softly and collapsed back against the bed, clutching her ribs.
“You should lie back.”
The voice was deep, ste
