Morning came reluctantly, pouring through the high, stained-glass window and spilling across the battered floorboards like liquid judgment. Liria woke in her old bed to the sound of hammers, the distant scrape of stone, and the sharp, medicinal scent of freshly washed linen. She blinked up at the painted ceiling still flecked with ancient celestial sigils, but now patched here and there with ugly, practical plaster.
A small crack, right above her head, snaked through a cherub's painted halo. If she turned her head, she could see her desk: scorched, the legs replaced with mismatched wood. Someone had tried to air out the room, but the only real result was the faint intrusion of cold, damp air, and the aftertaste of lavender soap.
Everything felt almost right. Familiar, but slanted, as if she'd stumbled into a well-rehearsed play with all the lines changed.
