Opal's POV
The first thing Opal became aware of was warmth. Not the searing, bone-deep heat of wolfsbane poisoning. Not the biting, paralyzing cold of the mountain. Just a soft, gentle warmth that pulsed beneath her skin and whispered: you're safe.
Then—voices. Familiar ones. Voices that made her feel safe.
They echoed like distant thunder, muffled and slurred like they were bleeding through water.
Her body was heavy. Unresponsive. But her mind clawed toward the surface, desperate for light, for air, for the voices. They called to her.
She forced her eyes open.
It hurt.
A blinding wave of brightness hit her, and her breath stuttered in her lungs. Everything was sharp. Loud. The world too real.
White ceiling. Sterile air. Pine and antiseptic. Home and pain.
Her throat was raw, her limbs alien. Like her soul had come back faster than her body could handle. As if something was meant to take her out.
She blinked again and focused.
