Fedlimid stirred slowly, his awareness returning in fragmented pieces, as though his mind was trying to stitch together a patchwork of scattered memories. The first thing he registered was the soft, unfamiliar sensation of fabric pressing against his skin.
Bedsheets? His muscles, sore and battered from countless battles, protested as he tried to move. Even in his partially healed state, courtesy of Seisyll's new healing tool, pain radiated through his body like a faint, persistent echo of his torment.
He blinked against the faint light filtering into the room, his lashes heavy and sluggish.
His mind wrestled with disbelief. Clothes?
He flexed his fingers cautiously, the action feeling strange but familiar. His hands, scarred and calloused, looked like tools of destruction. Each stretch of his fingers triggered flashes, brief, visceral images of his rampages. Faces twisted in fear, walls painted with chaos, the suffocating force of dark magic radiating from his core.
