Archer twisted the lock, ensuring no one could bother him, before collapsing into a chair by the fireplace. He released a small burst of dragon breath, igniting the hearth. Warmth filled the room, but it did little to soothe the cold ache in his chest.
'I'll never fall for a woman's sly games again,' he thought as his rage burned.
Once settled, he leaned back in the chair, his breathing shallow and uneven. The flickering firelight danced across his body, illuminating the hideous injuries. His eyes drifted down, catching sight of the open cuts that oozed sickly, yellowish pus.
The wounds refused to heal, which made everything worse. Gritting his teeth, he scanned the damage, deep slashes carved across most parts of his body, stab wounds that pierced into muscle, and raw, jagged skin torn open.
