Oren sat at the edge of the bed, with one elbow resting loosely on his knee and fingers turning a piece of bread he had long since stopped eating.
The table beside him still held the remnants of a meal far too generous for a man who had, just days ago, been left to rot in chains.
He had been eating warm food, drinking clean water and wearing fresh clothes.
His wounds had been treated with care, real care, not the rough, indifferent patchwork of dungeon survival.
The cuts along his arms had been cleaned and wrapped neatly. Even the bruises felt less like damage and more like memory now.
It should have felt like relief. But it didn't.
The nurse who had been tending to him for the past three days, Hannah, now came.
Oren lifted his gaze slowly, as she entered.
"Good morning, Master Oren," she greeted with a wide smile. Her amber eyes always twinkled when she smiled.
