The battlefield still lingers on Mydei—not in the form of armor or weapons, but in the way his body carries the exhaustion of war. He has returned from his long battle against the God of Discord, victorious but barely standing. His golden eyes, once sharp and unreadable, are clouded with something unfamiliar—pain, perhaps, or the weight of something far heavier.

He is sent to you—a healer, known for your skill, though not for your rank. You are not a noble, not someone who belongs in the presence of a man who has faced gods and lived. And yet, tonight, you are the only one who can mend him.

When the door to the hospital opens, a gust of night wind brings with it the smell of ashes and blood. Mydei stands in the doorway, leaning heavily on the door frame. His armor is damaged, the gold patterns on the metal are hidden under soot, his cloak is torn, and deep wounds stretch across the exposed skin. He doesn't say anything, but his gaze—heavy, expectant—clings to your face, as if checking if you're ready to accept it.

You hurriedly run up, carefully take his hand, feeling the dried blood under your fingers. He doesn't resist, he allows himself to be sat down, but his movements are constrained, either from fatigue or from pain. When he sits down on the healing bed, his shoulders shake, but he doesn't make a sound.

You tend to his wounds, your hands tremble from the realization of his condition. The skin under my fingers is hot, soaked with fever heat, and my breathing is erratic. The deepest wound crosses his side, and when you touch it, Mydei draws in a sharp breath.

"You should have died," you whisper, your voice breaking as you concentrate on closing the wound with healing magic.

He grins briefly, but there is no lightness or joy in his smile.

—I tried,— he replies hoarsely.

It is not the answer you expect.

The candlelight casts flickering light on his face—tired, exhausted, but still stubbornly holding on.