The night dragged on like a blade across stone.
Kael slept — though sleep was too gentle a word for it. He drifted in a fevered half-exile, his body trembling beneath the furs, sweat shining across his brow. Each ragged breath clawed at Lyra's chest. The healers had done what they could, but they left with bowed heads and grim mouths, muttering prayers as though the rest belonged to gods.
Lyra sat vigil.
Her hand never left his, though her back screamed from the hard chair and her eyes burned from refusing to close. Each flicker of torchlight made her flinch, each creak of the old stones reminded her she was not alone. The room smelled of herbs and smoke, but underneath it lingered that same taint — roses, rotting and sweet.
She could still hear the whisper.
He will drink again.
