Lucien lay sprawled on his bed, his arm resting over his forehead as he stared up at the dark wooden ceiling. It had been long since sleep abandoned him. The dull throbbing in his arm had become a persistent irritation, not quite painful but somewhat unbearable. This wound should have hurt, not itched.
His fingers twitched against the linen sheets, resisting the urge to scratch at the cut. During the fight that soldier's blade had grazed him, it was not that severe, but Lucien had enough experience with wounds to know this wasn't normal. A deep frown settled on his lips. It wasn't poisoned, at least not by any toxin he was familiar with, yet it burned beneath his skin in a way that didn't sit right with him. Now his patience was wearing out.
