The first thing Zhao Yan noticed as his consciousness returned was the cold.
It wasn't the biting chill of the snowstorm outside but the damp coolness of the stones he was lying on.
The second thing was the throbbing pain in his left arm, sharp and insistent.
He winced as he tried to push himself up, only to falter when the pain flared brighter.
Blinking against the dim light, he glanced down at his arm.
A crude bandage was wrapped tightly around it, and a faint green paste seeped through the fabric.
It wasn't expertly done, but it was enough to slow the bleeding and stave off infection.
The scent of crushed herbs lingered faintly in the air.
His brows furrowed.
His eyes swept over the cave.
It was small, barely more than a hollowed-out alcove, but it was shelter.
The remnants of a fire burned low in the center, the embers glowing faintly and casting a faint orange hue over the dark walls.