The infirmary stirred.
Luca's cough broke the quiet again—rough, involuntary, tearing its way out of his chest. The sound drew movement immediately. Low murmurs rippled through the room as dwarven healers straightened, rune-lamps flaring a little brighter in response.
He forced his eyes open wider this time.
Stone walls. Heat-veins glowing softly. The clean, metallic scent of medicine.
And—standing beside his bed—
A broad, armored figure.
Durgan Blackvein.
Luca froze.
The dwarf wasn't looming, but he filled the space anyway—arms folded, posture relaxed in a way that suggested absolute confidence. His eyes were fixed on Luca, not with hostility, not with concern, but with the same look one might give a weapon pulled from a forge to check whether it had cracked.
"…Awake," one of the healers muttered with relief.
A few dwarves exchanged looks, tension easing from their shoulders. Someone exhaled audibly. Another quietly adjusted a rune dial.
Durgan spoke.
