The fever broke on the third day, waking Dante in a hollow he barely remembered finding, his wounded arm wrapped in bandages he didn't recall changing. The toxins worked through his system overnight, leaving him weak and shaking but alive, though he was already behind schedule.
'Move.' He forced himself upright while every muscle protested. 'You've lost time so you need to make it up.'
His body responded without enthusiasm, but the Ancient Core pulsed in his chest and flooded his system with energy that pushed back the lingering weakness. It wasn't healing, exactly, but more like borrowed strength against a debt that would eventually come due. He broke camp in silence and started walking, the terrain shifting as he traveled.
