Morning arrived softly, without noise or urgency. The light filtered gently through a narrow window, sliding across wooden walls and worn floors, drifting like a hesitant visitor unsure of its welcome.
Dust motes floated lazily in the air, suspended in that golden glow, moving only when stirred by the faintest breath. The room carried a subtle scent of crushed herbs and antiseptic balms.
Outside, life continued in muted fragments: a cart rolling over stone, distant voices, the soft clang of metal, the world rebuilding itself while this room remained wrapped in fragile stillness.
On the bed near the window lay Sage. His body was almost entirely swathed in bandages; layers of white wrapping encased his torso, shoulders, arms, and legs until he resembled something pieced back together after being broken apart.
