The old man remained rooted in place, his expression full of exaggerated lamentation as he shook his head dramatically. "Ahh, see? You're just like him! I can do nothing about it. I'm just an old man, helpless and pitiful, trying to apply medicine to his thigh wound, yet he behaves as if I'm about to steal his innocence! And now you—you're acting like someone snatched your bride right in front of you. What a tragedy!"
The man's jaw clenched, and his fingers curled around the armrest of his chair. His ears burned an even deeper shade of red, a stark contrast against his usually calm demeanor. "Master Eamon," he said, his voice tight with restrained frustration, "go and rest. Now."
The sharpness in his tone, coupled with the steely glint in his eyes, made the old man falter for a brief moment. He knew his young lord's patience had worn dangerously thin, but even so, he could not resist one last remark.
