I entered the chamber and immediately saw Sire Ludwig and the young knight lying on the narrow bed, their bodies partly swathed in fresh, white bandages that still bore the faint scent of antiseptic. The soft amber glow of the early morning lamp flickered over their bruised skin, and I could hear their measured, shallow breaths—each exhale a quiet testament to survival. Relief rippled through me as I inclined my head.
"I am glad you two are alright," I said, my voice low and firm amid the gentle rustle of linens and the distant hum of a busy corridor outside.
Both men murmured softly, "Your Grace..." as they attempted to sit up. Their voices were fragile against the background murmur of the attentive physician busy at work on the wounded knight. I raised a hand to gently signal them to remain still, not wanting to disrupt the rhythmic sound of the treatment or the surgeon's careful, whispered instructions.
