Two days had passed since Kealith first opened his eyes.
The steady rhythm of progress marked his hours: short sessions of passive physiotherapy, guided stretches, careful breathing exercises, and the cautious food reintroduction. Broth had given way to oatmeal, and oatmeal to steamed fish in small portions. Though weakened from days of immobility, his body responded well—sluggish, yes, but not failing him.
The doctor still forbade him from walking without assistance. For now, the wheelchair remained his primary means of moving beyond the bed. But the stiffness had begun to ease, his muscles gradually remembering motion. Twice daily, the nurse helped him through repetitions—arms rotated, knees bent, legs lifted—until the strain in his tendons loosened. Sometimes Kealith gritted his teeth, refusing to betray discomfort, but more often than not he bore it in silence, his will hard as steel.
