When Luke awoke, the world felt strangely calm.
For a moment, he lay there—blinking against the soft wash of dawn filtering through the shutters, the faint golden light drawing warm streaks across the room. His body protested slightly as he shifted, small twinges of pain flickering through his shoulders and ribs, reminders of the battles and strain that had carried him this far. Yet, despite the ache, he felt… fresh. Reborn, almost.
The air was crisp, tinged with the smell of warm bread wafting up from the tavern's kitchen below. For the first time in weeks, he wasn't waking up to the gritty taste of sand in his mouth or the sting of wind-driven dust on his face. Instead, he was cocooned in softness—clean sheets, an actual bed, and silence unbroken by marching boots or the distant cries of the wounded.
He stretched slowly, his joints popping one by one, then sat up with a groan that turned into a satisfied sigh.
