The night was quiet, save for the occasional whistle of the wind slipping through the shutters' cracks. A lantern swung gently in the corner of the room, throwing long, slow-moving shadows against the walls.
Luke sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, attending to his bruises with a wet cloth that was quickly becoming stained a deep, angry purple. Thankfully, none of the wounds were open, just patches of darkened skin and the heavy ache that came with being tossed around like a ragdoll.
Across from him, Ilyrana sat cross-legged on a cushioned stool, arms folded across her chest. She watched him with the same hawk-like gaze she always wore when she was concerned, but tried not to show it.
"You look like you fought a monster," she said, breaking the silence.
Luke gave a short, dry laugh.
"Honestly? Feels about the same. Only this monster had a greatsword and a lot of pride issues."
