Patting himself down, brushing off the grit clinging to his skin, Azriel finally stood on his own two feet—free at last from Nol's hug.
"Master, here."
Azriel turned. In Nol's hands lay a simple black robe. Azriel took it with a nod, murmured his thanks, and slipped it on. While he dressed, the marquis studied him with cool, unwavering eyes—the same indifferent, stoic face as always.
"It took a great many health potions—and more than a few healers—to drag you back from the brink," Marquis Rossweth said.
"The wounds are closed, but the flesh around them is still weak, and the damage inside hasn't fully mended. Don't make any excessive movements."
Azriel nodded, then frowned.
"Healers?"
The marquis inclined his head.
