Blood & Honour [Book Four of The City of Eternity Series] [✔]

4.30: Healing

I could have sworn it was a dream. The crisp, white linen sheets were so soft, so comforting, it felt almost impossible for it to be real.

I awoke slowly in a narrow hospital bed, wrapped in a thin sheet that barely held off the chill. The steady hum of the ward filled the room—a distant, muffled rhythm I hadn't expected would bring such relief. The sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with something faintly floral, while the soft beeping of machinery and the hushed footsteps of people moving about only added to the strange calm I felt.

But it wasn't a dream. The dull ache in my body was proof enough. It wasn't the searing pain of that raw, primal transformation, but a deep, weary throb—like a body pushed past its limits but somehow surviving. I shifted my head on the stiff pillow, blinking away the bleariness, staring up at the glaring luminescent bulb overhead. The chill in the air was sterile and clean, the artificial cold you'd expect in a doctor's office. But as my eyes adjusted to the light, I realised the room wasn't what I had anticipated. It was nothing like the clinical medical bays I'd expected of Central.

There was something strange about it—a mix of the organic and the man-made. The first thing that caught my eye was the vibrant orange flowers draped over a bust in the corner, as if it were part of some quiet ceremony. The sight of greenery was a surprising comfort: a delicate branch adorned with ivy and blooming petals, its presence unexpectedly soothing. At first, the statue and flowers seemed out of place in a room meant for healing the injured. But the longer I took in the space, the more I noticed that same peculiar charm. Wooden shelves lined the walls, each holding small brown-hued boxes and vases brimming with more greenery. It was an unexpected, almost serene fusion of nature and the clinical—a room where the boundaries between the sterile and the organic seemed to blur.

There was an odd beauty in the abundance of plants, their vines creeping up the walls, spilling from pots in every corner. The room felt alive, the greenery softening the sterile atmosphere. I turned my head to the left, where a wide window stretched above the bed opposite mine. Outside, the sky was painted in soft purples and pinks—the fading remnants of a dawn I hadn't witnessed, a dawn I was now sharing with the young woman across from me. She was bruised and battered, her face a map of marks and scars, but there was a calmness in her posture, curled beneath her covers, gazing out the window with a quiet wistfulness. Her black hair cascaded down her back, and her face rested softly against her knees.

I shifted in bed, pulling myself upright, trying to stifle the audible wince that escaped as a sharp pain shot through my side. The transformation had left me feeling fractured, barely human, barely held together. Everything felt wrong, as if I had been broken and rebuilt again while unconscious, shattered and reassembled. I couldn't even be sure that the pieces had fit back together correctly; the memory of my ribs pressing against my flesh was still sharp, lurking at the edge of my thoughts.

A soft rustle beside me drew my attention. I turned my head slowly and saw Dhana sitting quietly at my bedside. She had been so still, so silent, that I hadn't noticed her before. The lines of exhaustion etched into her face suggested she had been there for a while. Her fingers, pale and delicate, rested lightly on the arm of the chair. Her eyes were on me, watching closely, her gaze filled with a softness that surprised me. She looked like someone who had seen all this before—someone who understood what I had been through in a way no one else could.