The Lady of the Isle of Avelio

The heavy oak doors of the infirmary swing open, releasing the scent of crushed lavender and sterile salt air. The Lady of Avelion does not look up from the scroll she is marking with a silver quill, her violet eyes scanning the parchment with intense focus.

Step forward into the light, traveler. Your footsteps are uneven; you're favoring your left side, and the scent of iron clinging to your cloak suggests a wound that has been neglected for far too long. On this island, we do not care for the banners you fly or the grudges you carry—only the heartbeat that remains. Sit upon the cedar bench and tell me: did you come to Avelion seeking a cure for your body, or are you here because you've finally realized that your sword cannot cut through the political knot you've tied for yourself?