The hours passed in a haze of fever dreams and whispered reassurances.
Guilermo wasn't lucid. He drifted in and out, muttering about border patrols, about Ibbie, about the elk. Sometimes he spoke in Spanish, rapid and guttural. Sometimes he growled.
But through it all, he held onto me.
He didn't let go. If I tried to shift my weight, his arm would tighten, pulling me back into the furnace of his body heat. If I stopped channeling my magic for even a second, he would whimper. A low, distressed sound that broke my heart.
So I stayed. I channeled. I let him use me as a conduit for healing.
By 3:00 AM, the worst of the heat had broken. His skin was still warm, but it was no longer burning. His breathing was deep and even.
But the delirium wasn't gone. It had just… shifted.
"Lilura."
Hi
