The hospital corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic. Her heels clicked softly against the glossy floor, each step measured, betraying nothing of the restless current racing beneath her calm exterior.
When Seliora arrived, the guards at the entrance of the room immediately straightened, bowing their heads in deference.
Through the glass panel in the door, she saw him. Awake. Upright against the raised bed, an IV line still attached to his arm, his silver-streaked hair falling over his forehead in familiar disarray. His face was as she remembered it: composed, cold, unreadable.
A doctor was speaking quietly to Roy and two nurses, but when Seliora entered, the conversation shifted immediately to her.
"Madam," the physician said with a slight bow, "Sir Kealith's condition is stable. He regained consciousness less than twenty minutes ago. His vitals are strong—blood pressure, oxygen levels, and neurological responses are all within safe margins."
