The morning light crept slowly through the mullioned windows of Xander’s private quarters, bathing the stone walls and woolen blankets in a soft, golden hue. The room, which had once stood as a symbol of strength and solitude, now bore the quiet marks of struggle: a crutch leaning against the hearth, bandages neatly coiled on the bedside table, and the faintest shadow of bloodstains on the floor—silent witnesses to battles fought and survived.
Xander lay on the wide cot, propped against a fortress of pillows, each muscle aching with the memory of steel and fire. The pain was always sharpest in the mornings, the throbbing in his ribs a constant reminder of his mortality. Yet beneath the bruises, beneath the exhaustion, there was something new—a quiet resolve, a determination that belonged
