Jennifer's hand was on her sword hilt before conscious thought caught up with trained reflexes. Six days of watching this unconscious stranger had not prepared her for the intelligence she now saw looking back at her—calm, aware, and far too alert for someone who should have been disoriented and weak.
"Don't move," she commanded, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart. "Don't so much as twitch a finger, or I'll put a blade through your throat before you can draw breath to scream."
The boy's expression didn't change. He simply continued to study her with those unnervingly focused eyes, as if he were cataloging every detail of her appearance and equipment for future reference.
"I mean it," Jennifer continued, slowly rising from her chair while keeping her sword within easy reach. "You're in no condition to fight, and I have orders to consider you a potential threat. One wrong move and you're dead."
Still no response. The boy didn't nod, didn't speak, didn't even blink. He just watched her with the patience of someone who had learned to evaluate threats before reacting to them.
Jennifer backed toward the door, never taking her eyes off the figure on the bed. "Captain Henrik needs to know you're awake. Don't think about trying anything while I'm gone—this room is warded, and there are guards stationed throughout the building."
She slipped out of the room and immediately began moving at double-time toward the guard station, her mind racing with the implications of what she had just witnessed. The boy hadn't acted like a confused invalid or a frightened child. He had looked at her like a predator assessing another predator.
That level of self-control from someone who should have been barely conscious was deeply unsettling.
Alive.
The thought echoed through Aeon's mind with a mixture of relief and grim satisfaction. The fall from the ravine should have killed him. The injuries certainly should have killed him. But somehow—whether through luck, his newly awakened attribute, or simple stubborn refusal to die—he had survived.
Now where the hell am I?
The room was small but well-appointed, with the clean smell of herbs and medicine hanging in the air. Bandages covered most of his body, applied with professional skill that suggested real medical knowledge rather than battlefield first aid. Someone had cared enough to heal him properly.
But the woman's reaction told a different story. Fear, suspicion, and the ready threat of violence. Whoever these people were, they didn't trust him.
Smart of them.
Aeon's eyes tracked the room's layout with mechanical precision, cataloging potential weapons, defensive positions, and escape routes. The window to his left was large enough to crawl through, though he had no idea what lay beyond it. The door the guard had used was the obvious exit, but likely well-defended.
More importantly, there were no obvious restraints keeping him in place. No chains, no shackles, no physical barriers beyond his own injuries. They were relying on his weakness and their vigilance to keep him contained.
Overconfident, or do they have a reason to be so casual about security?
The answer came to him as he focused on the lingering presence the guard had left behind. Even after she had left the room, he could still feel the echo of her power—an oppressive weight in the air that spoke of magical abilities far beyond anything he had encountered before.
She's strong. Stronger than Marcus. Stronger than the goblin chief.
The realization sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with his injuries. The goblins had been numerous but individually weak. Marcus had been skilled but ultimately just a man with wind magic. This woman—and presumably the others in this place—operated on an entirely different level.
More pressure than an entire army of goblins.
He could feel it even now, a background radiation of power that suggested multiple awakened individuals in the immediate area. Not just awakened, but experienced and formidable. The kind of magical force that could annihilate threats without breaking a sweat.
Direct confrontation would be suicide.
The tactical analysis was cold and clinical, but necessary. Whatever these people's intentions toward him, violence was not a viable option. He was outnumbered, outgunned, and barely capable of sitting up without assistance.
But that didn't mean he was helpless.
They healed me instead of killing me. That suggests they want something—information, most likely.
The slave collar was gone from his neck; he could feel the absence of its weight. They had seen it, recognized what it meant, and removed it anyway. That was significant.
They're not slavers themselves, or they would have kept the collar in place.
Aeon closed his eyes and took inventory of his physical condition. The diagonal scar across his chest pulled tight when he breathed, but the wound was clearly healing. His broken hand was splinted and bandaged, but the bones felt like they were setting properly. Various other injuries reported their presence but none seemed life-threatening.
Most importantly, he could still feel the infinity attribute flowing through his consciousness like a river of potential. Whatever healing had been done to him, it hadn't affected his awakened abilities.
That's assuming they don't know what those abilities are.
The thought was sobering. If these people were powerful enough to make direct resistance pointless, they might also be skilled enough to detect and counter his infinity manifestations. The barriers that had saved his life against Marcus might be useless against opponents who understood how to neutralize exotic magical abilities.
Information gathering first. Figure out who they are, what they want, and what options I have before making any moves.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside his room—multiple sets, moving with military precision. The guard was returning, and she wasn't alone.
Time for the real test.
Aeon opened his eyes and settled back into the same position they had found him in, watching the door with the patient attention of someone who had learned that survival often depended on reading people correctly in the first few seconds of an encounter.
Whatever happened next would determine whether he had found safety or simply traded one form of captivity for another.
The door opened, and several figures entered the room. Time to find out which it was.