Dravon had only lived in one thing: opulent wealth. He was born into excess and, by his own influence, made more. He had only eaten the best foods there are.
He stared at the sorry sight of porridge he had been offered, and his stomach churned with anger and…hunger. He had probably not eaten a thing for the seven days he'd been bedridden.
He took a quarter of a spoonful, placing it lightly on his tongue. It tasted of walnut and potatoes. "Such a weird combination," he lamented.
But it was eatable. With the condition of his throat, anything other than this purée wouldn't have gone through. He emptied the plate, kept it aside, and continued staring at the clothes. He picked them up one by one and wondered how anyone would wear them.
Dravon let out a loud sigh.
He closed his eyes and made attempts to shift away, back to Ravenforth, or anywhere in Valerune. But when he opened his eyes, he was still holding the coarse fabric in his hands.
