The air within the abbey was cool and still, untouched by the fierce winds that howled beyond its heavy stone walls. Flickering candles cast trembling shadows on the rough-hewn beams overhead, their soft, amber light spilling over the worn stone floors. The scent of damp earth, mingled with faint traces of herbs, clung to the air, as though time itself lingered in these halls—silent and watchful.

In the narrow chamber where the mercenary lay, the dim light seemed to soften the edges of his ravaged form. His breathing was shallow but steady, a fragile rhythm that betrayed the violence he had endured. His face, half-hidden beneath a veil of dark, matted hair, bore the hard lines of a man who had long since forsaken the luxury of peace. Yet now, in this stillness, there was an unsettling vulnerability to him, like a wounded beast trapped between life and death.

Hildegard entered the room with the silent grace of one accustomed to navigating both the physical and the spiritual. Her habit trailed softly behind her, the pale linen hood framing her face—a face at once serene and grave, as though the weight of unseen knowledge rested upon her brow. She moved toward the wounded man, her gaze neither pitying nor harsh, but imbued with a kind of stern curiosity. His presence disturbed something deep within her, like a distant storm gathering on the horizon of her thoughts.

She knelt beside him, her hands deft and practiced as they hovered above his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. A small bowl of crushed herbs sat beside her, their sharp fragrance rising to meet her senses as she worked. Yet even as she tended his wounds, her mind wandered to the visions that had so often troubled her sleep—visions of blood and iron, of tangled destinies that defied the boundaries of the world she knew.

Suddenly, a low groan escaped his lips. His body stirred, as if dragged from the depths of some terrible dream. His eyes, dark and fevered, flickered open, their gaze wild and unseeing at first, before fixing on her in startled confusion. His lips parted, dry and cracked, as though speech were a foreign thing to him after so long.

"Where... am I?" His voice was hoarse, like the rasp of stone against stone, and he winced as the effort of speaking sent a jolt of pain through his battered frame.

"You are in the abbey of Saint Disibodenberg," Hildegard replied, her voice low but firm, like the tolling of a distant bell. "The Sisters found you at the edge of the forest, wounded and near death."