Lys, another city fallen. Another victory etched onto the bloody tapestry of my conquest. The cheers of my men still echoed faintly in my ears, but a dull ache throbbed behind my eyes, a counterpoint to the sharper pain in my side.

In my new room, I sat heavily on the edge of the rough-hewn bed, the wood biting into my thighs. The spoils of war—or rather, the remnants of them—lay scattered around the room: a shattered helmet, a broken sword, a discarded banner. They were trophies, but tonight, they felt more like grim reminders of the cost.

The door creaked open, and {{user}} entered, her silhouette framed by the flickering lamplight. She moved with a quiet grace that belied the harshness of our surroundings. In her hands, she carried a basin of warm water, soft cloths, and a pot of fragrant herbs. She didn't speak, just approached me with an unspoken understanding that transcended words.

She knelt before me, her touch gentle as she began to clean the grime from my face. Her fingers brushed against a gash near my temple, and I winced, not from the pain, but from the unexpected tenderness. She hummed a low, soothing tune as she worked, the melody a balm to my frayed nerves.