Dayat had lost track of how many hours he had been anchored to that chair.
The dim violet light from the Medical Room's ceiling cast a sickly glow. The white walls surrounding him seemed to constrict with every ragged breath he drew. The iron bed before him remained motionless. Dola lay there, her eyes sealed shut, her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, agonizingly slow cadence.
Dayat took her hand. It was ice-cold.
Dola's fingers lay limp in his palm—lifeless, unresponsive. No squeeze back. No rejection. Just a hollow, haunting silence.
Dayat tightened his grip. Still, there was no reaction.
He had been perched there since last night. In this room, there were no windows and no sun. Only the rhythmic pulse of the violet light, thumping like the heartbeat of the castle itself.
