The small, dimly lit room felt suffocating despite its modest size. A man sat on the edge of a simple wooden cot, wincing as he lightly swayed his head from side to side, his gaze unsteady and unfocused. His once noble features were gaunt, cheeks hollowed by days of sleeplessness, and his eyes, bloodshot and weary, seemed to stare through the air itself, as if seeing some terrible vision he couldn't escape.
His right shoulder was tightly bound in bandages, the white cloth stained faintly with dried blood. A physicist knelt beside him, carefully unwrapping the cloth with a practiced hand.
"It's healing well," he said, his tone brisk and professional. "A few more days of rest, and you should regain full use of the shoulder."
Lord Maric, didn't seem to hear him. His eyes were fixed on the floor, unmoving, his hands trembling slightly as if caught in a memory he couldn't shake.
"Dead," Maric whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible. "My son is dead"
