"Why did you let those boys do this to my son?!" boomed a voice that rattled the small room like distant thunder. Gai jolted awake, releasing a pained groan as his battered body protested every movement. His vision blurred behind swollen, aching eyes—a stark reminder of the harsh beating he'd sustained. The narrow space was dimly lit and heavy with the scent of moist earth and musty straw, each breath laced with the weight of their humble circumstances.

"The boy’s conscription is mere weeks away, and he hasn’t even learned to stand up for himself." Egbert’s measured tone cut through the charged air as he joined Gai’s father in the cramped room. Their voices mingled with the crackle of a feeble fire in the hearth, whose embers fought a losing battle against the chill. Shadows of both men danced unevenly across rough stone walls, while icy drafts seeped through the gaps in the worn wooden shutters, amplifying the sombre mood.

"Lionel, it is better for him to learn this lesson now, while you can still keep a watchful eye over him." Each word was a stab in the quiet, as Gai slowly struggled to sit up, his frame aching and reluctant. With each laboured step toward the voices, the muffled discussion grew clearer, punctuated by sharp, accusing tones.

"Look at his face, Egbert! He’ll be lucky if he keeps both eyes." Gai’s father’s voice quavered between fury and despair as he squared off with the calm guard captain. Egbert’s hand rested nonchalantly on the hilt of his sword, his eyes steady under the flickering orange glow cast by the feeble fire. The light carved deep lines of tension into Lionel’s furrowed brow, contrasting sharply with Egbert’s composed, unwavering gaze.

"Step back, Lionel, or you’ll spend a night in the brig. And who will care for your son then? Emille is long gone now." The mere mention of Gai’s mother, Emille, washed over his father like a tidal wave, draining the fierce resolve from his features. Without another word, Egbert turned and departed, leaving Lionel isolated under the wavering light, his silhouette a silent testament to the fading battle.

"I'm sorry, father," Gai whispered, his voice scarcely audible. His father’s anger softened noticeably, and he strode over with heavy steps, placing firm but gentle hands on Gai’s trembling shoulders. The icy air pricked at Gai’s exposed skin, eliciting a slight shiver beneath his father’s comforting grip.

"It’s alright, son. Now, rest. Tomorrow, training resumes." His voice was low and soothing as he guided his son back toward the rough straw mattress that doubled as his bed. With a tender, lingering kiss pressed against Gai’s brow, the mattress rustled quietly. The subtle aroma of dried healing herbs—ever-present in his father’s care—melded with the earthy scent of the room. "I love you, son," he murmured warmly.

Before long, the relentless night coaxed Gai into a restless sleep. Beyond the fragile walls, the nocturnal symphony played on: the distant, mournful howling of village dogs, the rustle of leaves stirred by a wandering wind, and the sporadic drip of water escaping from a leaky roof.