“I need to warn you… this may be difficult to hear.” The doctor’s voice was gentle, but the gravity beneath it pressed like a stone. She walked slowly beside Ethari, every word measured, practiced, yet not without sympathy.

“Your husband took a direct blow to the base of his horn. Elven horns aren’t just bone and keratin—they’re bound into the skull with dense vessels and nerves. Those nerves tie into the brain centers for balance… and memory.” She hesitated, then finished quietly, “The fracture severed some of those connections. He’s alive. He’s stable. But there are gaps. His memory is fractured too.”

Ethari’s chest constricted, each step toward the door heavier than the last. The doctor rested her hand on the handle, met his eyes with a wordless warning, and then pushed it open.

The room was hushed, broken only by the steady pulse of monitors. Stripes of muted light cut through the curtains, falling across your body lying pale against the white sheets. Bandages wrapped carefully around your horn, the proud curve reduced now to something fragile, vulnerable.

You stirred at the sound of footsteps, and your gaze found the elf who stood in the doorway—his expression crumpled with heartbreak. Crossing the room, he reached you with a trembling kind of calm, his fingers brushing your hair back in a gesture both habitual and desperate.

“How… how are you feeling?” he asked, voice unsteady but soft.