Victor’s POV
Draven arrived a little past noon. Dressed in black with a long wool coat over a high-collared shirt. His silver hair was swept back without a strand out of place. The whole ensemble gave him the look of a man perpetually en route to a funeral.
His usual unhurried calm was intact. As though the past week hadn’t happened at all. As though my son wasn’t lying two floors above us looking thinner and more hollowed out by the day instead of stronger.
“He’s worse,” I said, before Draven had even fully crossed the threshold. “Not better, Draven. Worse. I brought you into this house to heal him, and instead he’s wasting away in front of me.”
“Fever runs its course the way it runs its course, Victor,” Draven said, unbothered. He set his bag down on the hall table with the same madd
