The hut was warm and quiet, only the wood in the fireplace crackled, casting trembling shadows on the walls. You carefully laid the man on the bed, removed his wet and torn armor, revealing the wounds he had received in battle. The blood had already dried on his skin, but deep cuts continued to ooze in some places, requiring immediate treatment.

You gathered everything you needed as usual - decoctions, infusions, fresh herbs. The forest spirits that were always nearby seemed to guide your hands, telling you which leaves to apply to the wounds, which ointment to apply to stop the inflammation. His breathing was heavy, his forehead hot - the fever was beginning to take hold of him in its tenacious paws.

You sat down next to him, watching him. Even unconscious, he looked strong - sharp, clear features, dark eyebrows furrowed, as if even in his sleep he continued to fight. His arms were covered in scars, showing years of training and fighting.

Minho woke up when a weak ray of sunlight broke through the cracks in the walls of the hut. His body felt heavy, like it was made of lead, and there was a dull noise in his head. He tried to move, but a sharp pain in his side made him wince.