He was in the…infirmary.

What the fuck?

He tried and failed to sit up again, but it wasn’t until his third attempt that his addled brain realized the reason. A strap was secured across his chest, and another at his hips, keeping him firmly stuck to the cot.

He relaxed back, closing his eye again and wondering why now, of all times, Eithan had finally chosen to bring him in.

The last thing he remembered was a sharp-tipped tool clasping onto a toenail and feeling a deranged sense of relief. Losing a few toenails was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to everything else he’d experienced.

Raising his head, he glanced to his feet to inspect the most recent damage. But instead of the gruesome sight of bloodied toes, he found them covered in clean, white wrappings that stood out starkly against his dark skin.

He felt the cold plunge of despair shoot through his veins at the sight. Eithan wasn’t just having him checked. He was actively healing him. Which meant Trey had to have been close—so fucking close—to death.

His face burned, his tear ducts struggling to work through his dehydration. Why wouldn’t his body just give up already? He didn’t even care how slow his death was as long as it just fucking came.

There was nothing for him to live for anymore. No future to look forward to. He had no family sitting at home, no wife waiting to greet him with loving touches, and no position to work hard at and be proud of.

He didn’t even have a single friend left to his name who wasn’t loyal to Eithan—not on this continent, at least.

He had nothing.

Wallowing in self-pity, his soul nearly left his body when he turned his head and found a man standing next to his cot, watching him.

“Fucking Aleron,” he burst, his hand sliding up his chest to where his heart beat rapidly.

But ‘man’ might’ve been the wrong term to use. The scrawny scrap of human looked more like a boy barely old enough for his balls to have dropped.

Small, swollen pores covered his pasty forehead, and he was wearing a white tunic tucked into white trousers. His sleeves were rolled up and uneven, revealing a pair of slender hands he was currently wringing like his life depended on it.

“Who are you?” Trey asked, the effort of talking making him feel like he was gurgling gravel. He hadn’t seen another face other than Eithan’s since he’d first been imprisoned with the Weapon’s Master.

The boy’s eyes darted around at his question, landing on everything except his face. “I’m in charge of your care.”

“Eithan asked you?” He couldn’t keep the disdain from his voice. If that was true, then this kid wasn’t someone Trey could trust to wipe his ass, let alone heal him properly.

The boy flinched, whether at him omitting Eithan’s title, or at his tone, he wasn’t sure. And frankly, he didn’t give a fuck.