"How is he?"
Ashara stood beside Ulrich's bed and asked.
Three hours had passed since the physicians began treating him.
The worst of the immediate emergency had ended, at least for the night. The chamber no longer rang with urgent commands or the clatter of instruments. The bloodied linens had been removed. Fresh bandages wrapped Ulrich's chest, ribs, shoulder, and the wounded stump of his left arm. A pale green ointment had been spread over the deeper cuts and bruises before being covered with clean cloth.
The medicine carried a restorative effect. It would not heal him instantly, but it would reduce inflammation, prevent infection, and help his body rebuild itself while he rested.
Ulrich lay motionless beneath the blankets.
His fever had lowered, though his face remained pale. His crimson hair had been cleaned of blood and sweat, and now fell loosely across the pillow. His breathing was still shallow, but no longer ragged.
