At Galeya's Throne in Mount Ourea, Alaric restlessly paced the room, his steps measured. As his wound healed, so did his energy—yet the more his body mended, the more his impatience grew.
That morning, Felix, hands trembling, had carefully removed the stitches from Alaric's abdomen. He could hardly believe how quickly the wound had closed. Even Angus, Alaric's guard, had recovered and was already up and moving.
Yet, strangely, several soldiers—whose injuries had been less severe than Angus's—remained bedridden.
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the door.
Six soldiers unsheathed their swords, their blades gleaming as they pointed them at the chest of a man with shoulder-length white hair.
"You occupied my house, cooked my rice, killed my chicken and hares, harvested my vegetables to the point that the garden is now bald, and you dare to point a sword at me? Outrageous!" Jethru's outbursts boomed like thunder, catching the soldiers off guard.