Impending Storm

The next few days passed in a quiet rhythm. Elona found herself growing used to the subtle changes in Alaric’s condition. His vitals, though still fragile, were more stable. The room, once cold and sterile, now had a sense of life. The scent of herbs, remedies Elona had prepared herself, mingled with the soft sound of the triplets’ laughter drifting from outside.

It was a delicate balance: her hopes rising with each small improvement, yet the weight of her past with Alaric, the hurt, the betrayal, never quite lifting. She would sit beside his bed, her hand on his, and talk to him for hours.

She would speak of the triplets, of the life she had built without him, and of the quiet sacrifices she had made. There were moments when she would pause, her voice faltering, unsure if he could hear her. But each time, she returned, convinced that, somehow, he could feel the sincerity in her words.

The triplets, as Master Fu had suggested, were the key. They were so young, so full of innocence, a