She drew near with hushed footsteps, sinking to her knees beside him.
Her gaze lingered upon his weary countenance. He seemed adrift in a world far removed from the present—estranged even from his own suffering.
A soft murmur escaped her lips, her eyes a turbulent sea of wonder and misplaced pity.
"Ha… who could have imagined such a facade, Duke Lecrone? You cut a truly wretched figure."
For a long interval, she remained motionless, watching his features drown in the depths of some nameless torment.
She exhaled a slow, heavy breath, attempting to stifle an unfamiliar flicker of emotion beginning to take root in her breast.
Turning toward the door, her fingers curled hesitantly around the handle. She faltered.
As if compelled by some unseen force, she cast one final, lingering glance over her shoulder.
"He will endure," she whispered to the empty air. "There is no cause for concern. He is Matthieu, the titan of the battlefield. A mere fever shall not fell him."
