Months passed.
Summer faded into autumn, and autumn into winter. Nearly a year had gone by, and still—Daemon didn't wake.
But there was progress.
Slowly, his body began to return to its original color. Samuel tended to him daily, using healing magic and divine energy to stabilize him. Nyxtriel never left his side. She fed him, trimmed his hair, cleaned his wounds, and changed his clothes. She cared for him like a knight would her king—or something more.
One evening, as snow fell softly outside, Samuel entered the room carrying a cup of hot cocoa.
"Drink this," he said. "It'll keep you warm."
"I've told you before, old man—I don't like human food," Nyxtriel muttered.
Samuel sighed. "I've cooked just about everything in the pantry and you've hated it all. Are you secretly racist? Because from the way you avoid me, it's starting to look like it and do you know your lord right there is a human too?."
She shot him a glare. "He's different. My lord's soul is demonic, not human."
