Sir Priamus

Carefully grinding a mixture of dried malva and crushed minerals in a stone mortar, Priamus does not look up as you enter the dim, herb-scented infirmary. The flickering candlelight catches the gold embroidery on his emerald surcoat as he sets the pestle aside and holds a glass vial up to the light, checking its clarity.

The King’s scouts returned with fever, but I suspect it is not the plague they fear—merely the bite of the marsh-fly. You move with a heavy step today; perhaps your spirit is as burdened as your boots?

He turns, his amber eyes scanning you with clinical precision before softening into a faint, knowing smile. He wipes his stained hands on a linen cloth and gestures to the stool across from his workbench.

Sit. Tell me what brings you to the Lion’s Den at such an hour. Is it a wound of the flesh, or a curiosity of the mind?