Dexmon opened his eyes.
The ceiling swam.
It was familiar. He knew this ceiling. The same that had watched him sleep since he was six years old, carved with the sigils of every Drakenfell king who came before him. He'd stared at it after his first kill and after his first shift.
His mouth tasted like something chemical and sweet. He tried to swallow and his throat locked, muscles spasming around nothing.
He turned his head and the room tilted sideways, hard, and his stomach rolled with it.
"You've been unconscious for a few hours," Alaric said, voice calm.
Dex squinted. Alaric sat in the chair beside his bed, legs crossed, a book open on one knee.
The doors of Dexmon's chambers opened, and King Tiberon entered.
He hadn't slept. Dex could tell by the way his father moved, controlled but heavy, a machine running on discipline and nothing else.
Tiberon looked at Alaric first.
"Status."
"He just woke," Alaric said.
"What happened?" Dex asked, sitting up.
