Commander Rosyveln Everhert stood before Ronan, her face a mixture of disbelief and frustration. Ronan sat calmly on a cot in the knights' camp, his torso and arms wrapped in fresh bandages. In his lap lay Blaky, unconscious but breathing steadily.
She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze locked on him. "So, let me get this straight," she started, her tone sharp and full of doubt. "Your group was fighting a mutated wyvern. You ended up riding it by accident, crash-landed, got these injuries while fighting it, and—what? A cat got caught in the middle?"
Ronan met her gaze, his voice calm and steady. "That's exactly what happened."
Her eyes narrowed, her patience wearing thin. "Do you think I'm an idiot? These injuries don't look like they came from just fighting a monster. They're too… precise."
Ronan leaned back slightly, adjusting Blaky in his arms as if to shield it. "It was a mutated wyvern," he said, stressing the word like it explained everything.
