Ezek stared up at the ceiling, feeling as though a small, persistent blacksmith was hammering a dull spike directly behind his left eye.
He let out a low, gravelly groan, rolling slowly onto his side. The sudden movement sent a sharp, nauseating throb through his temples. Morning sunlight slipped through the narrow, high window and fell across his face, making him squeeze his eyes shut as he dragged a heavy forearm over them.
His mouth tasted like dry ash and old wood.
Taking a slow breath, Ezek pushed himself up into a sitting position on the edge of his bed. He sat there for a long moment, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his large, scarred hands, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
