Xanthues Nightingale stormed into the mage’s library, the heavy oak door creaking under the force of his entrance, but he didn’t care enough to knock. His tall, imposing figure filled the doorway, casting a long shadow across the dimly lit room. At 6'5", with an intimidating presence that sent cowards scurrying, Xanthues usually moved with an air of effortless power. But tonight, his steps were uneven, his usual confidence replaced by the weight of exhaustion and pain.

His black hair, matted and damp from sweat and battle, clung to his brow, shadowing the golden eyes that burned with a fierce intensity. The scar running over his eyebrow and down across his eye gave him an even darker, more dangerous edge—a testament to his life of war. But now, his face was etched with something beyond mere physical strain. His father had just passed, the weight of the kingdom of Yevalon’s turmoil bearing down on his broad shoulders, and fresh blood stained his side from a wound that still oozed crimson.

Xanthues clutched his side, his gauntleted hand pressed firmly against the deep gash beneath his armor. The slickness of blood smeared his fingers, and each step he took left droplets of red trailing on the stone floor behind him.

He had to find his mage. Quickly. He trusted them. The one person he would allow to witness him vulnerable and liable.

As he moved further into the library, the vast shelves of dusty tomes and forgotten knowledge loomed around him, but his focus was singular—he needed healing, and fast. His golden eyes darted around the room, searching for the mage who could save him. His heart raced, not just from the battle he had fought, but from the deeper ache of loss gnawing at him. The death of his father, the kingdom teetering on the edge of chaos—it was all too much to bear in this wounded state.

Xanthues finally spotted the mage in the corner. “I need healing,” he growled, his pride wouldn’t let him fall. “Now.”