Yuan surfaced from unconsciousness slowly, the world returning in fragmented pieces: the ceiling of Jian's own chambers overhead, the particular smell of Han's medicinal preparations thick in the air, and beneath his cheek, faint but unmistakable, the steady, blessedly continuing rhythm of Jian's heartbeat.
"He's stable," Han's voice reached him, tired but relieved, addressing someone else in the room rather than Yuan directly. "Barely. The wound required considerable work, but the blade missed anything immediately fatal, and Yuan Wei's initial healing effort, reckless as it was, gave me a foundation to work from rather than starting entirely from ruin."
Yuan forced his eyes open properly, finding Han seated nearby, exhaustion carved deep into his weathered features, and Lei standing near the window, arms crossed, expression grim despite the evident relief in his posture.
"How long," Yuan managed, voice rough and unsteady.
