DRAKENFELL — MASTER HEALER'S OFFICE
"I feel fine," Gav insisted. "Just a bit strange."
Rook: Mate.
"Sit down," Alaric said without looking up from his desk, where he was writing something in a leather journal with the unhurried penmanship of a man who prioritized documentation over his patient's comfort and whose prioritization was a lifestyle choice.
"I don't need to sit down. I need you to clear me so I can leave."
"And I need you to sit down so I can determine whether clearing you will kill you or merely inconvenience me with paperwork when you collapse in a corridor. Sit."
Gavriel sat. The sitting was reluctant. The chair was cold. The healer's quarters smelled like dried herbs and judgment, and the judgment was Alaric's primary diagnostic tool.
