The morning light descended from above, illuminating the Second Prince Kaelin's pale face.
He sat on a stone chair, his upper body bare, the lines of his shoulders and chest muscles still sharp, yet veiled as though with a layer of ash.
The bandage on the left side had been removed, the newly stitched scar extending along the fractured shoulder line.
His Fighting Energy sputtered within, like a broken bellows, leaving only shattered echoes, unable to muster strength.
The physician knelt by his side, fingertips on his pulse, cautiously as if protecting an unstable ember.
"Your Highness," he tried to keep his voice steady, "you're recovering well... at least, much better than we initially feared."
Yet this consolation only deepened the furrow on Kaelin's brow.
For ordinary people, that would be good enough and sufficient to continue living without hindrance to labor.
