The dim violet light on the Medical Room's ceiling continued its weary pulse—a rhythmic, unending beat that felt like the castle's own heart.
Dayat remained anchored to his chair.
The dark circles beneath his eyes had bruised into deep shadows. His eyes were bloodshot, dry, and stung with every blink. Yet, sleep remained an elusive ghost. Every time he dared to close his eyes, he saw it all again: Dola falling to her knees; her pristine white cape stained crimson with blood; her trembling hand reaching for his cheek, offering a data transfer that had nearly claimed her life.
"Your probability of survival... is fifty percent."
Dola's voice still echoed in his mind—crystal clear, soft, and laced with a terror she had never shown anyone but him.
