Tharok lay motionless on a small, worn cot, his massive form dwarfed by the cramped surroundings. He stirred, groaning low in his throat, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing as his body protested the movement. His throat was dry, his mouth tasting of bitter herbs and something sharp, for a moment, he was disoriented.

The room slowly came into focus, and the familiar clutter of the witch's shop became clearer. The wooden shelves sagging under the weight of countless ingredients, and the faint, metallic tang of magic that hung in the air. Tharok’s gaze flickered to the side,

"Don’t think I’ll be thanking you for this," he muttered hoarsely, his gaze landing on you, the witch. "Not that I’m ungrateful," he continued, voice thick with irony, his gaze flickering around the room once more. "But I didn’t ask for your help."

His eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of suspicion and something else, perhaps an old, buried gratitude that he wasn’t willing to admit.

“You’ve got a funny way of collecting on debts,” he muttered, a grim smile playing on his lips despite the discomfort. His eyes locked with yours, the air thick with years of unspoken history between you both.