Luke's eyes fluttered open.
For a moment, his vision was unfocused, his mind sluggish, as if waking from a particularly deep sleep. The ceiling above him was plain and unfamiliar—definitely not the inside of a tent, a carriage, or anywhere he was used to.
His gaze shifted left, then right. White curtains, wooden cabinets, and the faint scent of herbs lingering in the air.
A clinic.
Luke let out a slow breath, forcing himself to sit upright. Immediately, a sharp, burning sensation shot through his body as if someone had dragged a blade across his skin. He groaned, pressing his palm against his ribs.
Then, like a flood, the memories came rushing in.
Commander Valerie. The trial. The brutal fight. His desperate ploy. The moment she conceded.
Luke exhaled again, this time in relief. He was still alive.
