Three days had passed since Draven's life hung in the balance after his brutal encounter with Deathstalker. Grandpa Max had been diligently caring for the wounded stranger, checking his pulse, and applying healing herbs to the deep stab wound in his gut. Slowly but surely, Draven's condition had stabilized, a testament to both his resilience and the village's care.
As Grandpa Max continued his ministrations, Clyde entered the hut, carrying a black eyepatch in his hand. He approached the makeshift bed where Draven lay and glanced at the unconscious man.
"This is for his eye," Clyde said, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness as he pointed at Draven's eye socket. "It might not look the best, but it's better than having an empty eye socket."
Grandpa Max nodded appreciatively at Clyde's thoughtfulness. "He'll appreciate it when he wakes up. It'll help protect the wound and keep it from getting infected."
