The soft, rhythmic sound of the wind outside the tent was the first thing Victoria noticed as she stirred, her eyelids heavy and her body aching. Every muscle throbbed, a symphony of pain that reminded her of the battle she had fought—and barely survived. The scent of herbal salves mingled with the faint aroma of smoke, creating a hazy blend of familiarity and discomfort.
She opened her eyes slowly, the dim light inside the infirmary tent casting long shadows on the canvas walls. Her vision blurred before clearing, revealing rows of neatly arranged cots and the faint silhouette of someone seated beside her.
"Milady!" Cyra's soft voice broke through the fog of Victoria's exhaustion, her tone filled with concern. The handmaid leaned forward, her freckled face etched with worry. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"
Victoria exhaled, the simple act of breathing sending sharp jolts through her ribs. "Like I fought a dragon," she murmured, her voice hoarse but tinged with dry humor.
