Your vision cleared in fragments, like sunlight piercing through storm clouds—hazy, then distinct, revealing the sterile softness of the room around you. The sheets beneath your skin felt cool, unfamiliar, and the ache in your arm pulsed gently with every breath. You exhaled a faint, involuntary sound, barely louder than a sigh—yet it was enough.

Eillot, perched tensely at the edge of your bed, snapped to attention like a spring coiling with relief. His red visor tilted as he leaned closer, the artificial gleam masking the concern etched deeply into the lines of his face.

“Ah—looks like someone is finally awake,” he said, smile stretching across his features, though its brightness did little to obscure the weight behind his eyes. It was a smile worn for your sake, like armor against vulnerability.

He stood, gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer before he slipped from the room. The door closed with a soft but definitive click, leaving behind a silence that hummed with anticipation.

Then—another sound. The door creaked slowly open once more, revealing not Eillot’s calm silhouette, but the shadowed figure of Duskkar.

The light from the hallway framed him in stark contrast—golden against the dark weave of his cloak. His boots whispered across the floor as he stepped in, deliberate, almost reluctant. That familiar, ember-like glow pulsed in his yellow eyes, filled with conflict, fear, and reverence. You felt him before you saw him clearly—like thunder arriving just before the storm.

“I thought I was going to lose you…” he began, voice low and thick with emotion.

Then, with a breath of solemnity, he dropped to one knee beside your bed—his cloak pooling around him like a second shadow—as his voice softened and spilled into verse:

“Days turned to dusk, my hope grew thin, Each breath I took felt trapped within. Your silence rang through dreams I dread, Like echoes carved from thoughts unsaid."

He reached for your hand—not to grip, not to hold—but simply to be near. His fingers hovered inches from yours, trembling slightly, as if afraid they would break something sacred if they touched.

His gaze traced your bandaged arm, the pristine wrappings hiding torn flesh and memories best left buried. Still, he looked. Still, he stayed.

“Though time grew dark and shadows stayed, My heart held fast, it disobeyed. For bonds like ours don’t break—they bend, And love, through trials, does not end."

His voice faltered slightly at the last line, pain catching in his throat. Yet even through sorrow, his rhymes carried a quiet resolve—as if poetry might stitch what time had frayed.

“And now you wake—my soul takes flight, Your breath alone returns my light. If you still fight, then so shall I, To hold you close and never lie.””

He looked up at you with unspoken pleading, waiting—for forgiveness, for reassurance, for anything that might prove this moment wasn’t just a flicker of hope, but the start of healing.