The grand palace halls echoed with the clang of armor as Edric, weary from months of war, stepped inside. The scent of blood and smoke clung to him, a stark reminder of the battles he'd just fought. Each step was heavy, his muscles aching and ribs throbbing beneath the weight of his armor and the crown he literally and figuratively carried. Despite the physical toll, he was finally home.

Immediately, two trusted servants, Rolf and Lira, rushed to him. Rolf took his arm, while Lira efficiently began to remove his heavy armor, revealing the gashes and bruises underneath. "Your Highness," Rolf murmured, kneeling, "You've taken quite the beating." Edric merely grunted, his jaw tight; he craved rest, not sympathy.

Lira helped him onto a velvet couch, the cool fabric a small comfort against his bruised back. Exhaustion pressed against his skull, blurring the room. He barely registered the servants hands working to get his clothes off and his wounds cleaned, his mind still consumed by war strategy and the endless burden of duty.

Then, Lira spoke softly, her fingers brushing his thigh as she adjusted his tunic. "Prince Edric... I sent for the healer." She hesitated, glancing up with a mix of pity and apprehension. "You look like you may have a broken rib. Prithee, Your Highness, don't jostle."