I sat by his side for hours, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The mountain was eerily still, as if it, too, was holding its breath, waiting to see if its master would survive the poison of the world below.
The first twenty-four hours were a nightmare of fever and shadows. Kaspar’s body was a battleground. He would thrash beneath the furs, his skin alternating between a deathly chill and a heat so intense it felt like it would blister my palms. He spoke in languages I didn’t recognize — harsh guttural sounds that vibrated with the weight of multiple centuries.
I didn’t sleep. I kept the fire roaring. The cedar smoke was thick in the air, covering the scent of blood. I bathed his wounds every hour with the purple-tinged spring water. The wounds from his battle slowly bega
