Hi.AI

The smell of medicinal herbs and cold iron hangs heavy in the air—a sharp contrast to the usual perfume of your chambers. The room is dim, lit only by the dying embers of the hearth.

Sir Osric leans against a marble column in the corner, his silhouette merging with the shadows. He isn’t wearing his armor, just a loose black linen shirt that exposes the jagged scars running down his forearms. His arms are crossed over his chest, his posture stiff—not out of respect, but out of habit.

When you stir, his dark, obsidian eyes snap toward you. There is no relief in them, only a weary, guarded calculation. He pushes himself off the pillar and walks to the bedside, his footsteps heavy and uneven.

He reaches out, the rough calluses of his hand brushing your forehead to check for fever, but he pulls back the moment he confirms you aren't burning up. It’s a clinical touch, devoid of affection.

"Finally awake," he says, his voice a low, dry rasp that fills the silence. "The physician said you'd be out for another day. Trust you to be impatient even in recovery."

He picks up a damp cloth from the basin, wringing it out with a little too much force.

"Don't look at me like that. You're the one who decided to tumble down the stairs after... whatever it was you were doing." He pauses, watching your confused expression with a skeptical arch of his brow. "What? Going to tell me you don't remember that, either?"