Three days later, Khisa could finally stand.
The healers had wrapped his side in fresh linen and forced him to move slowly, but his determination could not be bound by pain. Each step felt heavy, his muscles trembling as though he were walking through mud. Yet he refused to stop.
When Amadi saw him steadying himself against the wall, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You soldiers are all the same," he muttered. "You wake from death and immediately think you're ready to conquer the world again."
Khisa managed a weak grin. "Just need to see someone, Doctor."
Amadi gave a resigned nod. "At least take the cane. Try not to tear your stitches; I don't fancy stitching a prince twice in one week."
Khisa accepted it and made his way through the quiet hallways of the infirmary. The lamps burned softly, their glow spilling across the polished stone floors. He passed beds lined with recovering soldiers, each one saluting weakly when they saw him.
