The first thing he registered was the ceiling.
White stone, domed, with the soft blue light of monitoring crystals running along the upper curve of the arch. The medical ward. He knew it by the hum before he opened his eyes fully, the subsonic vibration of high-grade recovery systems running through the air and through the bed frame and into the back of his skull.
He catalogued his body with the eyes still closed. The fractured ribs had been addressed, the bone-deep pain replaced with the medicinal numbness of high-tier healing, the kind that cost more per hour than a Rank 3 adventurer made in a month. His mana channels were cool and saturated, the channels themselves intact. He was functional. He would be sore for a week in the specific way that healed bones were always sore, a phantom memory of the break living in the tissue even after the tissue was repaired.
He opened his eyes.
Nyx was sitting in the chair beside the bed.
