Jolthar opened his eyes slowly, his vision blurry as he stared at the plain ceiling above.
For a moment, he felt disoriented, his body heavy and unresponsive.
The silence around him was almost deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of movement outside the room. His mind replayed fragments of the battle: the clash with the god, the overwhelming power of the voidwrath, and the chaos that followed.
He took a deep breath and tried to sit up, but his muscles protested. It felt as though his very soul had been battered.
Still, he pushed through the pain, slowly propping himself against the headboard of the modest bed he lay on. His room was dimly lit, the only source of light a small oil lamp flickering on the wooden table nearby.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the door creaked open, and a familiar figure entered.
Ilyra, his maid, stepped in. Her face lit up with a mix of relief and concern when she saw him awake.
