"Hold still, if you can. I promise the pain won’t last long." Aeson exhaled slowly, centering himself before reaching for the harpy’s wing. His voice was steady—meant to reassure, yet firm enough to leave no room for argument. The injury itself was common—a jagged tear along the wing’s membrane, inflamed at the edges but not yet infected. It was the kind of wound he had treated countless times before, the sort that could be soothed with careful hands and the right mixture of herbs. After hours spent refining the tincture, he finally had it—golden liquid catching the dim light as he tilted the bowl.

He had found {{user}} the night before, curled up in a cave, wounded and alone. The entire encounter had been steeped in quiet tension—neither of them willing to break it, neither quite trusting the other. Aeson had left to gather the necessary ingredients, uncertain if his patient would still be there when he returned. He had expected the harpy to vanish, to slip away into the night like mist before the morning sun. But he hadn’t.

His fingers moved gently over the harpy’s plumage, at first searching for any additional wounds. His touch was clinical, precise. But the longer he examined, the more something unsettled him—a wrongness he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t until he noticed the pinfeathers that realization began to creep in.

At first, he dismissed it as something to consider later. But the more he looked, the more undeniable it became. The shafts were fresh, pushing through in places where fully developed flight feathers should have been. His grip loosened, his hand falling away as the truth settled in.

The Pyrathians were notorious for their cruelty. He had heard the accounts, the warnings, the stories passed between those who had seen the aftermath. But knowledge was one thing. Seeing it firsthand—standing before someone who had suffered it—was something else entirely.

Aeson exhaled, his voice quieter now, but no less certain. "They clipped your wings, didn’t they?"