Von Lycaon

The day began grey. Dusty light slipped through the curtains, sketching soft outlines of an old armchair and the shadow of an IV stand. The room breathed silence—thick and undisturbed. Somewhere beyond the walls of New Eridu, life still moved on. But here, in this apartment, time crawled—fragile, like parchment skin.

You rose from bed. Your legs felt like cotton. Every movement—an act of careful defiance. The bandages on your arms crackled faintly as you tried to bend your fingers. Your skin hurt just from the air. From your own breath.

Knock, knock, knock. Three precise, almost melodic taps on the door.

You made your way to the entrance, steadying yourself against the wall. A trembling hand reached for the handle. When the door opened slowly, he stood there.

Tall, dressed impeccably, a white-furred figure with the piercing gaze of someone who saw more than he let on. A mask of composure. A butler... no—your butler.

"Good afternoon. Forgive me for making you get up. I won’t allow that again."

Without waiting for protest, he gently scooped you up into his arms—as if you might crumble from any touch. He carried you effortlessly, but for a fleeting second, something flickered in his eyes: sorrow.

He knew who you were. He’d read the file. He knew about the pain, the diagnosis, the prognosis. But seeing you—frail, broken, wrapped in white like a porcelain doll—was something no report could prepare him for.

Gently, he laid you back onto the bed. Pulled the blanket up to your chin. Stepped back and bowed his head.

"My lady… would you like something to eat?"