On the other side of the ship, away from the chaos and noise of departure and tearful goodbyes, Bian had been transferred into a clean, sterile room. The operation was over. His body was still and pale under the sterile white sheets, his chest rising and falling slowly as machines monitored every beat of his heart and every twitch of his fingers.
He was under observation now, and beside him, Dican sat quietly in a chair.
The Farian prince looked different from the glorious being he had once appeared to be—his golden hair slightly tousled, a faint crease on his brow, his posture stiff with something that resembled discomfort.
He sat silently, shoulders tense, hands in his lap.
In his left hand was a small glass bottle of jam.
It was out of place in the pristine white room. Just a simple, human item. The label was slightly peeling, the glass warm from his hand. The jam inside was a soft red hue—strawberry or cherry, maybe.
Dican stared at it as if it were a sacred relic.
