Pain came first.
A deep, throbbing ache that pulsed through his skull like a drumbeat. Damian groaned, eyes fluttering open to darkness—low ceiling, cracked wood, the smell of damp earth and smoke.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
His chest was bare. Cold air brushed his skin. A rough bandage wrapped around his head.
He pushed himself up abruptly.
"Where the fuck am I?"
The door creaked open.
A woman stepped inside—thin, wrinkled. She looked to be in her sixties, dressed in faded cotton, eyes sharp but kind.
"Oh," she said softly. "You're awake."
Damian was on his feet in seconds, fists clenched, instincts screaming.
"Who are you?"
She raised both hands calmly. "Easy, boy. Don't tell me you've lost your memory too."
"My memory is fine," he snapped. "Answer me."
She sighed, walked closer but kept her distance.
"My grandson and I were farming. We saw you lying by the roadside. You looked dead… but you were breathing. So we brought you here."
