The ceiling was white.
Arthur knew this ceiling. He'd stared at it twice already in this body, which was two times more than he'd like. The healing wing had a specific smell: something medicinal cut with the faint sweetness of residual healing magic that settled into the air and stayed there.
He moved his right hand.
It moved a half-second after he told it to. Slow and imprecise, like something woken from too deep a sleep. He looked at it. The skin was intact where the rock spikes had gone in. The knuckles were fine. The healers had done their job.
He still couldn't feel any of it properly. Both hands numb from the wrist down.
He sat up. His head protested immediately — a deep throb behind both eyes that pulsed once and settled into a steady, dull pressure. His chest felt occupied. Not painful. Just full of something that didn't have room to be there yet. The aetheric blood was still thin. He could feel the specific hollow of it, the absence where the reserve should be sitting.
