John blinks, and his breathing startles out from the deep rhythm of sleep.

"Oh," he says, embarrassed. "R-right, uh. Sorry."

He shifts his head against the pillow, lifts his left hand to rub the light from his eyes. It fades in uncertain flickers, until only his irises smolder with a lingering dull gold. In the quiet, he fumbles for an excuse.

"Your arm. The, uh— the one marked with a symbol. Did that come from... the shrines?"