It was the intense ray of sunlight that woke Alastor from his deep, dreamless sleep—a line of white light seeping through the crack between the half-drawn curtains beside his bed. The sounds of birds chirping just outside and the shouts of working men demanding careful handling of the barrels of wine filled the air.
Alastor cursed at them, his entire body aching while his skin prickled from the residue of the burn. He had never felt anything like it before—fatigue so deep that moving was a challenge in itself as if his body were made of stone.
"You're finally awake." A voice greeted him from one corner of the room.
Alastor fell back. "Ah, Your Majesty, I beg your pardon," he said.
"No need for that. I told you," Caspian replied hurriedly. "I knew you wouldn't be at your best if I visited so early, but I wanted to thank you—for coming to my aid after so long. I was worried you wouldn't." He stepped closer to the bedside. "And it meant so much to me..."
