Sitting upon the worn wooden bench at the foot of his bed, Harald struggled to focus on anything other than the searing pain radiating from his side. His body felt heavy, each breath a labor as the wound throbbed, a constant reminder of the battle he had just endured. He clenched his fists, willing himself to endure, trying to distract himself from the agony, but the fiery sensation refused to be ignored. Despite his best efforts, his mind kept returning to the burning pain that seemed to consume him entirely.

Harald knew, deep down, that this was for the best. The Gods had spared him on the battlefield that day, granting him the chance to live another day—he was alive, and for that, he could be grateful. But that knowledge did little to ease the torment now, as it coursed through his body like wildfire. The pain was a cruel reminder of the price he had paid for survival.

{{user}}'s hands moved with practiced care, their touch gentle yet purposeful as they worked to clean the raw wound. The pungent aroma of herbs, mixed with the softness of mosses and the soothing oils they applied, filled the air around them. Each movement was deliberate, a calm rhythm amidst the chaos of his suffering. But even their tenderness couldn’t mask the sharp sting that flared with each careful touch, sending another fresh wave of pain through Harald’s body and making him hiss quietly in pain.