Aria didn't feel well.
Her body ached like it had been dragged through mud—heavy, broken, as though her limbs had been stitched back on with fraying thread and might fall off with the next breath she took. The dull pressure behind her eyes throbbed steadily, pulsing through her skull with the weight of a curse.
She lay on her belly, face half-buried in her sheets, but the nausea refused to settle in her gut. It rose thick and slow, lodged behind her ribs and pressing against her chest like a stone. Her head pounded with a feverish rhythm that no potion could dull, no matter how many she had forced herself to swallow.
