By the second morning, the heat had become unbearable.
Metheea had not slept.
She had spent the night turning beneath sheets that became damp almost as soon as Kalistra replaced them. Every fire in her chambers had been extinguished, and the windows stood open despite the cold morning air. The servants who entered shivered beneath their uniforms.
Metheea felt none of it.
The heat no longer came and went in brief waves. It remained beneath her skin, deep and constant. At times, it gathered low in her stomach until she curled around the ache. Then it climbed through her chest and throat, making every breath feel warm and leaving her unable to bear the weight of the blanket or the brush of her sleeping gown against her body.
Her mana had become no easier to control.
Silver light moved beneath the skin of her hands whenever the pain sharpened. Tiny sparks crossed the sheets and scattered over the carved bedframe before disappearing.
Kalistra sat beside the bed with a cup of water.
