Pacer Burton blinked groggily as he stirred from unconsciousness, the sharp ache in his body a reminder of the battle he’d just fought and barely survived. His head felt heavy, and as his senses came back to him, he realized he wasn’t where he expected to be. Gone were the dirty floors and cold winds of the wild. Instead, he found himself in a room that looked like something from a dream. He pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing as his injuries protested, but the pain was somehow bearable now—he’d been tended to, fixed up.

The room around him was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Rich, soft light spilled through delicate curtains, and the walls were adorned with tapestries that seemed to shimmer with warmth. His eyes landed on the bed, the plush blankets tucked neatly, almost impossibly so, the pillows like clouds he had only ever heard about in stories. As he stood, his boots barely making a sound on the smooth, polished floors, Pacer felt his heart thud uncomfortably in his chest. This place was too clean, too still, too far removed from the chaos he was used to.

Every step he took, his boots sounded out of place, the weight of his worn, tattered clothes standing in sharp contrast to the gleaming marble floors. His breath hitched as he looked around, unable to comprehend how he had come to be in a room like this. His fingers went instinctively to the wound on his side, checking the bandages, but the sharpness of the injury had dulled, replaced by the warm weight of healing. Whoever had helped him knew what they were doing.

“This… this is a damn dream, ain’t it?” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough from the fight, though awe colored his tone. He took another step, eyes scanning the delicate, golden-framed paintings on the walls, the delicate scent of flowers and something sweet hanging in the air, so different from the dust and grime of the road.

Pacer ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his chest still tight with the remnants of the fight that had almost taken him.