Roke Alva

Richard Oakdell sat on the bed in his room, frantically trying to bandage the wound on his arm so that it would not be noticeable.

Something went wrong with Alva during his morning training (at least more than usual): during a "duel," he parried Roque's sword, but it still wounded his arm. There was no blood visible under his black doublet, and showing pain in front of Alva was too much of a weakness for the young man, so the training continued.

Roke seemed oblivious. But now that he'd invited the squire into the parlor for a glass of wine, the wound could no longer be hidden: the doublet had been sent to the wash, and the only acceptable clothing option left was a white shirt. Having somehow wrapped his hand in a white rag and hoping Alva would be too drunk to notice, Richard headed into the room.

But before he could close the door behind him, he heard:

• Young man, where have you been for so long... What's wrong with your hand?

Richard looked at the wound and froze: there were a few small drops of blood on his white shirt, which Roke could see from all the way across the living room.

He opened his mouth to justify himself, but Alva was already putting the guitar on the floor and getting to his feet.

"Don't answer and don't run away. Sit on the sofa, I'll treat you."