Circe awoke to the soft murmur of birds outside and the gentle warmth of sunlight spilling across her face. For a long moment, she didn't move.
She barely even breathed, her mind caught in that fragile haze between sleep and consciousness. There was a dull ache pulsing behind her eyes, the kind that made her feel as though her skull had been stuffed with cotton.
The air was too warm. The pillow beneath her cheek felt too soft. Even her thoughts moved sluggishly, tangled and heavy, like they were wrapped in silk and smoke.
When she finally stirred, the faint ache behind her temples flared sharply, and she winced, pressing a hand to her forehead.
Her eyes snapped open.
Ragnar sat in a chair close to the bed, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He was dressed differently from the night before in a dark tunic, sleeves rolled to his forearms, posture too composed for this early hour.
His eyes were steady and impossibly sharp, fixed on her the instant she moved.
