Zayn woke up.
His eyes fluttered open.
And he wasn't on the ground of the forest.
He wasn't sprawled across dirt and bloodstained grass, nor was he surrounded by the remains of the battle.
He was —
In his bed.
A soft mattress cushioned his sore body, and a warm blanket rested over him, as if shielding him from the world outside.
The air smelled faintly of herbs, likely some form of medicine used to aid his recovery.
The dim glow of a lantern flickered in the corner, casting gentle shadows along the wooden walls of the small room.
He exhaled slowly, his thoughts sluggish as he tried to piece together what had happened.
His torso felt oddly hollow, like there had once been a gaping hole that no longer existed.
Lifting his trembling hand, he traced his fingers along his stomach, expecting to find torn flesh and bandages —
But there was nothing.
Only smooth, healed skin.
And yet — he felt numb inside.
