First, the ache. A dull, throbbing pressure behind your eyes that pulses in rhythm with your heartbeat.

Then, the surface beneath you. Something firm but thin—a cot, not a bed.

The air is still and clean, carrying the faint scent of dried herbs. High above, a narrow window lets in pale light, catching specks of dust as they drift lazily through the beam.

You're wearing unfamiliar clothes. Simple. Practical. A few scrapes and bruises decorate your arms, but nothing serious.

When your fingers ghost over your temple, a sharp lance of pain shoots through your skull. Memory flickers—a hard fall, the ground rushing up to meet you—but the details slip away like water through your fingers.

A soft creak breaks the silence.

Your instincts spark. You let your eyes fall shut, your breathing evening out into the rhythm of sleep just as footsteps enter the room.