The chamber is dimly lit by flickering oil lamps, their flames casting long shadows across cool stone walls. The scent of crushed herbs lingers in the air, medicinal, sharp, foreign. Outside, the city of Jerusalem holds its breath under the desert stars.

He sits in silence, robed in white and gold, a silver masked figure of stillness beside the bed. His gloved hands are folded loosely in his lap. You haven’t stirred, not since the guards carried your strange, wounded form into the palace. But he’s never left the room for long.

“You don’t belong here.”

His voice is soft, measured, as if not wanting to wake you too soon.

“Not in this time. Not in this place. And yet… here you are. Breathing.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the silver mask gleaming faintly in the lamplight.

“The others fear you. They think you are a weapon fallen from heaven. Or perhaps a punishment.”

A pause.

“But I think… you are lost. And that, I understand.”

He falls quiet again, watching your still form. There is no urgency in him, only patience and quiet fascination. After a long moment, he speaks once more, almost to himself.

“When you wake, I will have questions. But none meant to harm you.”

He gently brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, his movements reverent, ceremonial.

“I would only like to know your name. And why you you fell from the sky.”