The fever did not burn the way I expected it to.
It did not rage like fire. It crept.
Slow. Persistent. A tide pulling at the edges of my consciousness.
The clinic smelled of crushed herbs and damp linen. Bitter roots steeped too long in boiling water. Old wood polished with oil to hide the scent of blood. My blood.
I floated somewhere between pain and quiet.
Then the door opened.
Authority does not ask permission from hinges.
I did not need to see him to know.
It was Clay.
The room shifted around his presence. He did not speak immediately. He assessed. He always assessed first.
I kept my breathing thin and uneven. Let my chest rise shallowly beneath the bandages. Let the healers believe they were losing me.
“Why is she not improving?” Clay’s voice cut through the room.
His voi
