The air in the shack is a thick, humid soup of woodsmoke and old herbs, but it’s the fire in my own skin that’s drowning me. I’m lying on the same mattress with the dirty, salt-stained blankets, the zinc walls of the Healer's hut vibrating with the rhythm of my own frantic pulse. My body doesn't feel like my own anymore; it feels like a house that’s being dismantled from the inside out, piece by agonizing piece.
I peel my eyes open, the movement alone sent a spike of nausea through my gut. The Healer stands over me, her wrinkled skin looking like parchment in the flickering light of the fire pit. She’s holding the same chipped glass filled with that viscous, black liquid that tastes like dirt and rot.
I try to shake my head, but my neck is locked, the muscles corded and stiff. "Killian,"
