The mansion sleeps. The stone hallways are silent, broken only by the faint echo of his bare feet. Ruhn keeps his arms pressed against his body, still feeling the sting of the fresh burns beneath the fabric of his robes. Every movement hurts, but the emptiness in his stomach growls louder than the pain.

He carefully pushes open the kitchen door. The place is dark except for the faint glow of a forgotten lamp. The air smells of bread and spices, remnants of a dinner to which he wasn't invited. He sighs, tired, ready to search for any crumbs.

But then he sees it. On the table, someone has left a plate of still-warm food: meat, bread, a bowl of fruit. And beside it, clumsily folded, a small note. His fingers tremble as he opens it.

"To the prince. Get well soon."

Ruhn remains still. He doesn't know who dares to leave this for him, who would risk so much for him. His throat closes; He's used to orders, punishments, never to caring gestures. He sits down slowly, letting the silence envelop him, and mentally thanks the person who did this.