Slowly, Grievous heard steady steps approaching from the corridor outside the room. Each move sounded faintly, yet with a strange persistence, as if marking the passage of time itself.
Then, very slowly, he saw the door begin to open. The scene unfolded before him as if caught in a thick fog, moving at twenty percent of its original speed. It was a strange sensation, as if the world around him had been dipped in molasses.
"So the instinctive adjustments that I didn't understand increased my comprehension speed by a few times," he whispered to himself, eyes glued to the hand that pushed the door open with surprising gentleness.
The hand moved cautiously, almost reverently, as if it feared disturbing something within the room.
Grievous strained to catch a sound, but the intruder's movement was so quiet and so swift in his slowed perception that his mind struggled to grasp the reality of the moment. The silence was thick, almost suffocating.
Whoever was entering felt like a ghost gliding through the threshold. And then, as the moments stretched into what seemed like minutes, Grievous recognized the figure. It was his older brother.
The brother's silhouette grew clearer, framed by the dim light of the corridor behind him. He moved closer with a mix of urgency and tenderness, the weight of worries pressing down on him. When he noticed that Grievous had awakened, a flicker of relief crossed his face. He hurried to his side and asked, "Are you good?"
The question hung in the air, simple although loaded with real pure concern.
For Grievous, the moment dragged, heavy with discomfort and dull frustration. With a single focused thought, he repeated what he had done the previous time instinctively. But this time, he did it with intention. He lowered his comprehension to match the natural speed with which his brother moved.
He forced a trembling expression onto his face, his features contorting into a mask of fear. His brow furrowed deeply, and his lips quivered with the pretense of panic. "I can't feel my left leg," he said, voice cracking. "Save me, brother!"
His older brother's eyes widened, filled with a raw concern. The look seemed genuine, so genuine that it tugged at something buried deep within him.
Slowly, he reached out, placing a steady hand on Grievous's shoulder. "There is no need to worry," he said softly. "I will find a solution."
Inwardly, Grievous allowed a slow, sly smile to form. 'Decades of acting and hypocrisy in political arenas were certainly not in vain,' he thought, pleased with his own deceit.
Without hesitation, the older brother turned and left the room, his footsteps quickening as he moved toward the main hall. His mission was clear: to inform their father and mother.
The urgency within his steps was fueled by more than just concern. He wanted them to leave this cursed place, this shadowed estate that seemed to hang heavy with real misfortune.
The father listened intently as his son relayed the bad news. Without delay, he commanded the servants to prepare the carriages for departure. The household moved swiftly, the air thick with some kind of dread.
Within a few hours, the family was on the road, heading back to their main palace.
Traveling through the Kingdom of Braza was relatively easy. The roads were well maintained, swept clean by the hands of countless laborers and protected by powerful enchantments.
These wards shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight, a subtle but constant reminder of the kingdom's strength.
The Baron's own forces rode alongside the carriages, their armor gleaming faintly and their eyes sharp for any sign of danger.
In one of the servants' carts, nestled beneath the cover of night, a small group exchanged hushed whispers. The sky above was a canvas of stars, dazzling and near infinite, with the luminous moon casting a silvery glow over the world. The servants spoke in low voices, their words dripping with rumor and speculation.
"I heard he was cursed!" one whispered, eyes wide. "They say the monster that attacked him was an undead. That it cursed him with its attack, causing this to happen to his leg!"
Another scoffed softly. "No, no," she said. "I heard he lost his mind and attacked himself. That's how it happened."
A third voice, colder and more cynical, cut in. "Both of you are fools. This is clearly a scheme by the first young master to gain the privilege of inheriting the family title."
A young woman named Lucia shook her head, her voice soft but firm. "No, that's not possible. The first young master is the kindest person in the family, especially to his younger brother."
"No one knows what hearts hide, Lucia," murmured another servant, his tone bitter.
And so the whispers wound around the cramped space, weaving a sheet of suspicion and fear. Each servant added their own thread, their own interpretation of the events that had shaken their household.
Meanwhile, within the quiet sanctuary of his carriage, the old fox, Grievous, had already adjusted his comprehension once more. His mind, sharp and ever calculating, churned with possibilities. He weighed his options carefully, considering each move like a seasoned player in a dangerous game of chess.
The faint creak of the carriage wheels on the cobblestone road was a distant murmur against the steady sounds of his thoughts. The night outside was calm, but inside his mind, a storm was gathering.
What would be his next step?
He closed his eyes briefly, allowing the practiced mask of pain and helplessness to settle back into place. It was a role he would play well, for now.
'Patience,' he reminded himself.
'The game is far from over.'
Outside, the world spun on, ever so changing and moving as ever. As the journey back to the main palace continued through the night.