[ThorenVald Estate—Later—Leif's Chamber—Leif's POV]
Eryndor knelt at my feet, his long hair falling like a curtain as his hands gently brushed ointment across my ankles. The rope burns stung like fire under his touch.
"Issshhhhhh!" I hissed, jerking back.
"Stay still, Leif," he said calmly, not even flinching. His tone was less healer, more annoyed babysitter.
Meanwhile, Nick was circling me like a headless chicken. "Oh gods, oh no, what if it scars? What if it's something serious? What if you get an infection and lose your leg, My lord?!"
"Nick, stop," I groaned. "I'm not dying from rope burns."
And then—like the universe said 'let's add drama'—Alvar walked in.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't say a word. He just appeared behind Eryndor like the Grim Reaper on casual Friday and said, low and flat:
"I will apply it. Step back."
