The tall figure standing outside the door didn't make a sound as he crossed the threshold. He wore his dark armor, the steel still bearing fine, pale scratches from the gravel and dust of the Zeregran Ranges.
He didn't look injured, nor did he look tired, but as his gaze fell upon Morgan, the young man immediately noticed something subtly off.
Valerius's expression was flat, stoic as ever, but his golden eyes carried a strange, heavy stillness.
"You're awake," Valerius said, his low, resonant voice filling the small timber room.
"Hard not to be," Morgan replied, adjusting his posture slightly against the headboard, wincing as his ribs protested.
"Am I being discharged? Because if Angel has another bowl of bitter-root soup lined up, I'm crawling out the window."
No," Valerius said simply.
Morgan looked at him, his brow furrowing slightly. "
Then I'm guessing this isn't about my leg."
"It isn't."
