With a great heap of effort, Alpheo dragged himself upward, his muscles trembling under the weight of exhaustion. He staggered once, then again, catching the edge of the desk just in time to prevent a second fall. His knees felt made of wet sand, his skull hollow as a rotted gourd. Breathing alone felt like a labor fit for three men.
The knocking continued almost mocking in its regularity. Then came a voice, muffled by the ringing in his ears and the pulse pounding behind his eyes.
Alpheo blinked stupidly, head throbbing, head swimming, not recognising the voice.
"It's open," he muttered, rubbing his face with both palms as if trying to peel away the fog.
It may have been an assasin for all he knew...
The hinges creaked. Footsteps slid across the floor. Even without lifting his eyelids, Alpheo felt a shift in the room, an uncomfortable familiarity settling around him.
And then the voice:
"Evening, grandson."
Alpheo let out a tired breath that was almost a laugh.
