On the cold, uneven stone floor of a communal washhouse, a young man lay sprawled beneath the relentless assault of the rain.
The downpour had long since driven away the washerwomen and the townfolk, leaving the open-air stone shelter entirely abandoned. It washed the grime from the cracked floorboards and flushed the deep crimson stains from his linen clothes, carrying away the drying fluids that clung stubbornly to the fabric. The frigid torrent hit his skin with stinging force, and somehow, the icy assault seemed to have returned a fleeting trace of color to the young man's deathly pale face.
Water pooled rapidly over his nose and into his open mouth. Eídal jolted awake with a violent, chest-racking cough.
He rolled onto his side, gasping, spitting out mouthfuls of bitter rainwater. His fingers clawed at the slick stone as his lungs fought for air, every breath searing like hot coals in his chest.
How long was I out?
