The first thing that hits me when the haze lifts is sound, not pain, not fear, but the layered chaos of battle echoing through stone corridors that were never meant to carry it. Shouts ricochet off the walls, claws scrape against tile, steel rings sharp and too loud, and the packhouse smells wrong, smoke and blood and ozone tangling together until it burns the back of my throat. I force my eyes open and suck in a breath that feels thin and unsteady, my head swimming just long enough to remind me that hesitation here will get me killed.
Hands are no longer on me.
That alone tells me something has shifted.
I roll to my side and push up hard, ignoring the protest in my ribs, because muscle memory does not wait for permission and survival rarely gives second chances. The corridor I am in is
