The healer made his way back to the clearing with hurried steps, the dense forest pressing in around him. His mind was racing, piecing together what he had observed. He had left Fenrir and Maric behind under the pretense of searching for Mystica, but something gnawed at him—a suspicion that refused to be silenced. When he emerged into the clearing, the sight that greeted him was far too calm. Fenrir sat quietly in his wheelchair, his hands resting on the armrests, while Maric leaned against a tree, idly twirling a twig in his fingers.
The healer's gaze immediately locked onto Fenrir, his usually composed demeanor replaced by a tense unease. He stepped forward, his robes brushing against the foliage as he closed the distance between them. "Fenrir," he began, his tone measured but heavy with suspicion, "I need to speak with you."
Fenrir looked up, his expression as serene as ever. "Of course, Healer. What troubles you?"
