Charles lay on a comfortable bed in the Storm Clan's medical wing, a stark contrast to the chaos of the arena.
The room was modern, with polished stone walls lit by crystal lamps casting a soft, warm glow.
The air smelled of medicinal herbs and ointments, and a thick rug muffled footsteps on the floor.
A table held neatly arranged medical tools, a couple of cushioned chairs sat nearby, and a large window revealed the rain outside, though the glass was treated to dampen the storm's roar.
A strange machine in the corner hummed softly.
Everything in the room was designed for comfort and recovery—a luxury Charles hadn't expected after the arena's brutality.
He was surrounded by three of the young women from the medical team, all in light blue tunics.
The one with the brown braid gently massaged his shoulders, easing the tension lingering from the fight.
Another, with short blonde hair, offered him cherries from a wooden bowl, carefully placing them in his mouth.
