The room still smelled of herbs and old bandages—a quiet place after days of pain. Sunlight came through the tall stained-glass windows, casting soft colors on the clean floor. In the middle of it all, a handsome middle aged man with blond hair, still messy and stuck with dried blood, rested against silk cushions.
His armor was gone, and his wounds, though days old, were slow to heal. Faint bruises marked his skin. The maids moved gently around him, no longer rushing—just quietly changing bandages, adding ointments, and wiping the sweat from his face.
Daniel Marciel sat across from the injured man, legs bouncing with excitement. His younger sister—Elena Marciel—sat beside him, her expression somewhere between worry and admiration. They were both around the same age with the shared golden locks that marked them as Marciels. Her hands clutched her dress while Daniel leaned forward eagerly, eyes glowing.
