The infirmary was suffused with a quiet tension, the kind that pressed down like a weight on Daisy’s chest. The soft light from the lamps reflected off the polished counters, and the faint scent of dried herbs and antiseptic clung to the air. It was a place meant for healing, but tonight, it felt like a war room.
Daisy paced back and forth near the counter, her movements restless and unrelenting. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her thoughts tangled and sharp, like brambles scraping the inside of her mind. Christian stood by the far wall, his gaze heavy on her as he watched in silence. His presence was solid, steady, but even his quiet strength couldn’t cut through the gnawing anxiety clawing at her.
“He’s not himself,” Daisy said suddenly, her voice sharp in the stillness.
