A week had passed...
And no one had forgotten.
The city had become like a hospital—quiet not with peace, but with exhaustion. Exhaustion of bones, hearts, and souls.
The northern wing had been entirely allocated to the wounded… men and women, warriors, even some servants who had been dragged into the madness, now lay there motionless.
In one of the quiet rooms, where the light was dim and the scent of medicinal herbs lingered in the air…
Leonard lay on his bed.
His face pale, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, yet he had not lost consciousness.
His eyes were open… staring silently at the ceiling, as if watching memories that had never left.
Everyone passing through the hallway whispered:
—"His condition… is somewhat stable."
But they didn't know that what hurt him most wasn't the wound, but the silence that had imprinted itself inside him.
He listened to the footsteps, to the creak of the door, and each time hoped it would be his parents…
