4B, 77AD

Lord Artys walked slowly around the solar. He had spent the better part of three months abed, where the fever had nearly consumed him. He felt as though he had drifted slowly between this world and the next, never fully taken by the Stranger. While the illness had come as quickly as a summer storm, it had lingered like the fog of the mountain valleys.

He felt old, unsure on his feet in a way that he could not remember. Harlan had offered him a cane, which lay by his bedside. The old lord was too proud to lean on the piece of wood, preferring to shuffle slowly about the castle. Still, his son had taken over many of his duties as lord, and as far as he could tell the boy had done well. Though the words had not crossed his lips, he was proud of his son.

As he settled by the fire, he hoped its warmth would restore his strength.