The Duke's boots scraped across the cold stone floor, his pace quickening with each step.
His pulse raced, pounding in his ears, and though the room around him remained unchanged — the dim candlelight flickering, casting long shadows on the walls — he could see none of it.
His vision had narrowed, locked solely on the motionless figure lying on the bed.
Beside the bed, the old physician worked silently.
His hands, though aged and weathered, moved with the precision of long practice as he carefully removed the arrow embedded in the young man's leg.
Blood slowly seeped from the wound, dark and thick, pooling beneath the linens.
Without hesitation, the physician applied a thick, pungent paste, attempting to staunch the flow and ward off infection.
Varian's breath caught in his throat, recognition striking him like a blow to the chest.
He staggered forward, gripping the edge of the bed for support, his hands trembling.
