Air rushed into his lungs like a sudden tide, harsh and biting, shocking him fully awake. A sharp gasp escaped him, dry and cold, scraping the inside of his throat like sandpaper. Mikhailis's eyelids fluttered heavily, protesting the sudden intrusion of consciousness. He forced them open, blinking groggily, the blurry outlines of the world slowly crystallizing into sharper focus.
A ceiling stretched out above him, made from polished, dark timber. It was rough-hewn but sturdy, aged wood beams neatly aligned, bearing quiet evidence of masterful craftsmanship. The warm glow of lanterns danced gently against the wooden texture, casting faint shadows that shifted lazily, as if alive. He took another slow, cautious breath, deeper this time, tasting the faint herbal aroma hanging in the air—medicinal, soothing, mixed subtly with the scent of old wood and warm linen. A healing room, he thought dimly, or at least somewhere intended to be comforting enough to pass for one.
