The tent was dim. There was a flickering candlelight casting jagged shadows against the canvas walls.
The scent of dried blood and medicinal herbs rushed into Xion's nose as soon as he entered.
Darius was lying on his mattress. His upper body was wrapped in fresh bandages.
His sweat-damp silver hair clung to his forehead, strands falling over the mattress like liquid moonlight.
Yet despite his injuries, his face retained its intimidating sharpness.
Even with his eyes closed there was a certain aura surrounding him that made Xion subconsciously halt in his steps.
Before stepping closer, he glanced around. The tent was empty, save for the two of them.
The number of guards protecting His Grace had noticeably increased. None of them stopped him from entering. Rather they were surprised that he even appeared there.
And now he was standing in the same vicinity as Darius.
There was no crystal lamp in the tent, nor any trace of mana lingering in the air.
