She rubbed her arm and felt something damp against her palm. Thinking it was sweat, she wiped her palm against the blanket a few times and touched it again, but the dampness was still there.

It didn’t feel like sweat.

To figure out what the dampness was, she sluggishly got out of bed and lit the nearest candlestick.

The solitary flame flickered precariously in the dark room.

Her eyes were drawn to the candlelight shadows stretching across the room before she snapped out of it and lifted her sleeve to check her forearm.

As expected, her sleeve was slightly wet.

It wasn’t even enough to properly call it “wet,” but people say even a bit of dew counts as being wet.