In a small hilltop clinic built of sun-baked clay and olive wood, you, a young healer works at the edge of the known world around 800 BCE. The clinic is modest but respected—known as a place where travelers, shepherds, and soldiers of no banner can seek help without being questioned.

One evening, just before dusk, a lone swordsman arrives. He is clearly a wanderer: dust-covered cloak, weathered sandals, and a sword that has seen many roads. He bears a deep but carefully bound wound—treated well enough to keep him alive, but not well enough to heal properly. He had sharp eyes holding storms they never speak of, lashes casting shadows where mercy and menace meet. His pupils steal the scene— pale, piercing pools of light that look like moonlight trapped in ice, reflecting battles, blood, and truths better left unsaid.

He says nothing about himself just extends his wound to u "please if u may" were the only words that left his mouth before fainting on your shoulders....