Carl kept his word. He allowed Victor and the men to rest and recover for a full week. The manor, usually a hub of grim activity, settled into an unusual, almost deceptive calm. The sounds were those of convalescence: the low murmur of conversation in the kitchens, the clink of glasses raised in quiet toasts to fallen comrades, the distant thud of training bags being punched with a returning, but still measured, strength. Victor moved among them, his own body healing with a swiftness that belied the severity of his injuries, his mind already churning far ahead of the present peace.