When Dravon opened his eyes, it was nighttime. Yet a light reflected from the pale moon outside a window, a window that looked too familiar. It reflected onto a white floral dress from someone, a woman who sat beside his bed, head lying over folded arms with her hair littered over the bed and trailing down towards her bent knee.
He made to stand, but his vision suddenly blurred, and he slumped loudly against the bed, stirring the person who was lying down without a care in the world. She must have been startled because now she hovered over him with her hair falling all over his face.
The skin tone would have passed for Belarus, but for that silky long hair. He had miraculously survived the attack, and not only did he survive, he was somehow back to Valerune, to his room, with Athea Lyselle beside him. How did life suddenly become so perfect?
