Zaber entered the room and gently closed the door behind him. The wooden panel gave a soft creak, then everything fell silent. The noise from outside—voices of people, clatter of dishes, distant rumble of cart wheels—faded behind the thick walls, muffled and remote.
The room was simple. Not large, yet not cramped. A wooden bed leaned against the wall, a small table and single chair beside it. The window was barred; the light filtering through cast the space in soft, muted tones. The floor was clean but worn, emitting a faint creak with every step.
Zaber stood motionless for a moment. He did nothing. He steadied his breathing and listened to his body.
Pain was there. In his shoulder, beneath his ribs, along his leg. But the pain did not control him. On the contrary, it reminded him—he was alive, he had survived the battle, and he had not yet stopped. He set his sword against the table and placed the beehive-shaped artifact beside it.
