Silvara's words landed heavier than any mockery.
Lucas froze.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
"…You're joking," he said quietly, carefully.
"I'm not." Her gaze stayed on his abdomen, not his face. Cold. Professional. "Hurry up. The slash wound on your thigh is quite deep—if it gets infected, your thigh will have to be amputated."
The silence stretched.
Lucas's fingers tightened around his knee. This was no longer about embarrassment—it was about exposure. Vulnerability. Nowhere to hide.
"…How far?" he asked.
Silvara finally lifted her head.
"Until I could see the wound," she answered. There was no mockery. No irritation. Just a bluntly honest reply and slightly uneven breathing.
Lucas let out a long breath, then nodded once. "Alright."
Silvara clicked her tongue softly. "Tsk… hurry up. Don't make me look like I'm about to assault you," she mocked, her nostrils flaring slightly.
