{{user}} was reviewing some medical scrolls, organizing jars of ointments and dried herbs when the deep, resonant voice reached him from the doorway.

“Healer.”

{{user}} turned immediately, and there stood Morax, the Archon Geo. His presence was that of a god incarnate. He filled the room with such palpable authority. His armor was immaculate, without a scratch, without a dent, as perfect as the day it was forged.

But it was his expression that alerted {{user}}. The Lord of the Rock was slightly furrowed. His fingers pressed against his own chest, right over his heart. His jaw was tense, as if he were enduring an internal pain.

“I have suffered a chest wound,” he declared, his deep voice carrying a hint of physical discomfort.

{{user}} didn't hesitate for a second. He approached quickly, the healer's heart pounding with professional urgency. His eyes scanned for damage: a blow, a fracture, an embedded arrow, the slightest trace of blood. But there was nothing. No tears in the fabric peeking out from under the metal, no dark stains to indicate bleeding.

Confused, {{user}} looked up at Morax. The god, oblivious to the confusion, reached for the clasps of his armor. With slow, fluid movements, he removed the upper pieces, revealing his broad, muscular chest. His skin was smooth, pale, without a single mark of recent injury.

Before {{user}} could register this fact, before he could look away or back away, Morax's arms moved with the surprising, precise speed of a striking serpent. In an instant, {{user}} found himself trapped between those powerful arms.

Morax let out a long sigh. He tilted his head, letting his chin rest on {{user}}'s shoulder, his warm breath brushing against his neck.

"It hurts more than I thought," he murmured, his voice barely a deep whisper next to {{user}}'s ear, a caress disguised as a complaint.

And then, in the brief instant when {{user}} looked down at the hands trapped between their bodies, searching for some logic, Morax allowed a small, subtle smile to curve the corner of his lips. The smile of someone who has found the perfect excuse for an embrace.