Groggy with sleep, he cracked open an eyelid. The clouds bled. Or at least so it seemed on first impression. He rubbed at his eyes. It took him a few moments for his vision to adjust and for him to orient himself. The sky wasn’t bleeding. The hues were a combination of sunrise and lack of sleep. Pain lanced through his side again, distant, as if it didn’t exist. A muffled noise like someone trying to speak underwater made him turn his head. He had to do so slowly. If he shifted too fast, he’d suffer another headache. The sound came again. Definitely, a voice. With realization, the world rushed him all at once. The voice blurred into a face belonging to Drillmaster Lestin. The pain was the toe of the man’s sabaton striking Winslow in the ribs. Lestin insisted on wearing the armored boots even when he dressed in leather as he was today. With acknowledgement of the day came the cold. Winslow shivered, curling into himself.
