The weight of the fever pressed down on Mikhailis like a heavy blanket, smothering his usual sharpness and leaving his body weak and trembling. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and his throat felt raw, each breath coming out as a strained whisper. The shivering didn’t stop, even as he felt the heat radiating from his own skin, a confusing contrast that left him dazed and disoriented. His fingers twitched, curling slightly into the fabric of the blanket covering him.
Cerys was by his side, her usually stoic deanor crumbling under the weight of her worry. Her hands trembled faintly as she dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water, wringing it out before placing it gently on his forehead. The gesture was careful, deliberate, as though she feared hurting him further. She leaned in close, her green eyes clouded with concern.
"It’s… just a fever," Mikhailis rasped, his voice barely audible. He forced a small, crooked grin.
"Nothing… to panic over."
Cerys shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line as she adjusted the cloth.
"Don’t speak," she said, her voice soft but firm.
"Save your strength."
Despite her words, Mikhailis couldn’t resist.
"You’re worrying too much," he murmured, though his tone lacked the teasing energy he usually carried. His body protested the effort, and he coughed weakly, his chest rattling with the sound.
"And you’re not worrying enough," Cerys countered, her voice wavering slightly. Her fingers brushed against his cheek as she checked his temperature again. The heat under her touch made her draw back with a worried frown.
"You’re burning up."
Her hands moved quickly, arranging the blankets and smoothing them over his body. When she leaned in again, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Please, be healthy," she murmured, her lips brushing lightly against his forehead. The gesture was fleeting, filled with desperation and a vulnerability she rarely let surface.
Mikhailis let out a soft chuckle, though it was weak and strained.
"Didn’t think… the Lone Wolf… could be so… sentintal."
Cerys’s lips twitched into the faintest smile, though her eyes remained serious.
"Don’t test ," she said, her tone carrying a shadow of its usual sharpness.
"Rest. That’s an order."
He closed his eyes, letting the coolness of the cloth ease so of the relentless heat. His mind drifted in and out of focus, the world around him a hazy blur. Ti felt suspended, each mont stretching out endlessly.
Mikhailis’ eyes fluttered open at the sound of Rodion’s voice. His lips curved into a faint smirk, though the effort seed to drain him further.
"Always… growing. You’re efficient," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Cerys glanced at him, her brow furrowing.
"Who are you talking to?" she asked, her tone tinged with confusion and concern.
"Just… thinking aloud," Mikhailis replied, his gaze shifting toward the ceiling.
Always need to keep up appearances, he thought, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint grin.
Cerys frowned but said nothing, focusing instead on wetting the cloth again. Her hands moved with a practiced rhythm, though the slight tremor in her fingers betrayed her lingering anxiety. She returned to his side, dabbing the cloth gently along his temple.
"Rest," she said quietly, her voice softening.
"Let take care of you, Your Highness,"
Mikhailis’ eyelids grew heavy again, and he let the soothing sensation of her touch pull him back into the haze of half-consciousness.
Cerys’s voice broke the silence, filled with a rare note of vulnerability.
"Fevers… they’re dangerous here," she said, her hands pausing in their movents.
"People die from them all the ti. Sothing that starts small can grow into sothing… deadly."
Mikhailis opened his eyes, eting her gaze.
"I’m not… dying," he said, though his voice lacked conviction.
"Just… tired."
Her expression darkened, and she looked away.
She sat back slightly, her fingers tightening around the cloth as she dipped it into the cool water again. Her gaze lingered on Mikhailis’s flushed face, her usually calm expression now twisted with unease.
"It’s not just the fever itself," she continued, her voice quieter, almost as though she were speaking to herself.
"It’s what cos with it. Delirium. Weakness. And if there’s an infection, well…"
Mikhailis stirred slightly, his lips parting as though to speak, but she silenced him with a shake of her head.
"No, don’t. Just listen." Her tone was firr now, but her green eyes shimred with sothing almost fragile.
"When I was younger… after the raid on my village, so of the survivors caught fevers. They didn’t seem bad at first. Just a little heat, so chills. We thought they’d recover with rest." She hesitated, her voice catching on the mory.
"They didn’t."
He opened his eyes fully, their sharpness dulled by the fever but still holding a flicker of the man she knew.
"Cerys," he rasped, his voice weak.
"I’m not… them."
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she wrung out the cloth, placing it on his forehead with a gentleness that seed out of place for soone who had earned the moniker of "The Lone Wolf."
"You don’t know that," she whispered.
"Neither do I."
Rodion interjected, his clinical tone cutting through the tension.
Cerys flinched at the sudden voice, her head snapping toward Mikhailis.
"What—?"
He forced a smile, the corners of his mouth barely lifting.
"Just… thoughts in my head," he mumbled, too weak to provide a more convincing excuse. Rodion, maybe don’t sound like you’re booming from the heavens next ti, he thought dryly.
Rodion replied, clearly unimpressed.
"You don’t understand," she murmured.
"I’ve seen it happen. People… they think it’s nothing until it’s too late."
Rodion interjected.
"So I won’t die,"
Cerys’s eyes widened slightly at the sudden statent, though she quickly masked her surprise.
"What…?" she began, but Mikhailis cut her off with a weak smile.
"Just… a thought," he said.
Can’t let her know too much, he reminded himself, shifting slightly under the blankets.
Mikhailis’ weak chuckle broke the tension. "Guess… I’m allergic… to magic," he said, his attempt at humor drawing a faint smile from Cerys despite her worry.
Rodion’s voice interrupted again, this ti with a note of formality.
A tiny, spider-sized Chira Ant scurried into the tent, its movents quick and purposeful. Cerys tensed at the sight, her hand instinctively moving to her sword.
"Easy," Mikhailis murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It’s… harmless. Just a bug,"
Cerys hesitated but didn’t move, her eyes narrowing as the creature climbed onto Mikhailis’ arm. The small ant began its work, its antennae twitching as it emitted a faint, almost imperceptible glow.
Mikhailis closed his eyes, letting the ant do its work. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant, like a faint tingling against his skin. He could feel its movents, deliberate and precise, as it analyzed his condition.
Mikhailis blinked, lifting his hand to examine the faint markings. The tattoo had grown, its intricate patterns extending further along his skin. He frowned, his mind racing.
So, the bond’s getting stronger. Is that a good thing or a problem waiting to happen?
"aning?" Mikhailis asked, his voice rough.
Rodion replied with a hint of amusent.
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