Eiravyne didn't remember falling asleep.
But when her eyes opened again, the room was steeped in darkness.
Moonlight bled in thin streaks through the curtains, painting pale shadows across the floor.
Eiravyne didn't move.
Couldn't.
Her limbs felt heavy, molten, like her bones had turned to lead.
Sweat clung to her skin, slick and suffocating—soaked into the sheets, her shift, the back of her neck.
Her hair stuck to her temples and throat, damp and tangled. The air in the room was warm, still, stifling.
Everything felt too much.
Her body pulsed with a dull ache, as if the bed had swallowed her whole.
She wanted to move—to rise, wash, do something—but her muscles refused.
She knew it even before she shifted.
That deep, low ache blooming in her lower abdomen—the kind that made everything inside her feel like it was being wrung out—was unmistakable.
The warmth between her thighs wasn't just sweat.
Her period.
