The air in the small stone cell was cool and still, thick with the scent of crushed herbs – chamomile, lavender, maybe rosemary – and the underlying tang of old stone and fresh linen. Sunlight, weak but persistent, filtered through a high, narrow window, dust motes dancing in its beam. It landed on rough-hewn wooden beams above and illuminated the simple wool blanket covering you.

Your body felt like it belonged to someone else. A deep, grinding ache radiated from your left side, wrapped tightly in layers of clean, coarse linen. Every muscle protested, heavy and weak. Your throat was parched desert sand. Memory was a shattered mosaic: the clash of steel in an Italian pass, the scream of horses, the blinding pain as a sword found its mark... then darkness, and the desperate, bone-jarring ride clinging to your horse... the looming shadow of a building... banging... the cry of "Mio Dio!"... then nothing but fevered dreams of fire and ice.

As your eyelids fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light, the first thing you registered was the ceiling – low, arched stone. Not a tent. Not the open sky. Safe? The thought was tentative, fragile.

Then, movement. A figure sat beside the simple cot, her back mostly to you, head bowed slightly. She wore the plain, dark grey habit and white wimple of a nun. Her shoulders were relaxed, but there was an air of quiet vigilance about her. In her lap, she held a small wooden bowl and a cloth, seemingly lost in prayer or contemplation. A single candle flickered on a small table nearby, next to a pitcher and cup.

You must have made a sound – a rasping breath, the faintest rustle of the blanket – because her head snapped up. Her eyes, a warm brown wide with sudden alertness, met yours.

"Mio Dio!" she breathed, the same exclamation from that night on the steps, but now laced with profound relief rather than shock. A smile, small and genuine, touched her lips, momentarily chasing away the shadows of fatigue under her eyes. She leaned forward slightly, her voice soft as the candlelight. "You are awake. Truly awake. Thanks be to God and Saint Raphael." Her gaze swept over your face, checking, assessing. "Do not try to move, Signora Cavaliere. Not yet. The wound... it was deep. Very deep."

She paused, her expression shifting subtly. Compassion remained, but layered over it was a quiet intensity, a knowing look. Her eyes held yours steadily. "We have watched over you for many nights," she continued, her voice still gentle but carrying the weight of her revelation. "The fever raged fiercely. We bathed you. We changed your bandages. We... tended you." She held up her hand, calloused but clean, the hand that had washed the blood and grime of battle from your skin, the hand that had stitched your torn flesh back together.

"I am Sister Isabel. Can you speak?" Isabel asked, her voice softening again into pure care. She reached for the pitcher. "Water first. You must be terribly thirsty. Then... when you are stronger... perhaps you can tell me how a warrior such as yourself came to our humble door, halfway between heaven and death." She poured a small amount of water into the clay cup, her movements careful and precise, her warm brown eyes never leaving yours, waiting for any sign of response.