Chapter 32: The Calm That Never Lasts

Cherion didn’t blink.

It was a strange sort of defiance, really, the kind that usually gets people into a lot of trouble in stories, yet here he was, locked into a gaze that felt like staring directly into the heart of a dying star. Those crimson eyes were swirling, dark and deep, but Cherion found a sudden stubbornness anchoring his boots to the rug. He didn’t know why his heart was attempting to drum its way out of his chest, nor did he quite understand the magnetic pull between them, but he refused to be the first one to look away.

His fingers remained miraculously steady as he continued to massage Zarius’s temples. He could feel the Duke’s large, gloved hand still curved around the nape of his neck, a heavy weight that was both a threat and a tether. The position was ridiculous. They were practically upside down and breathing into each other, everything tilted and disoriented. But Cherion didn’t pull away. He leaned into it.

"If you’re quite finished trying to intimidate your physician, Your Grace," Cherion murmured, "I’d appreciate it if you let me get back to work. I have a job to do, and your ego isn’t on the list of things I’m supposed to mend."

For a heartbeat, the world stopped. Cherion expected a roar, a dismissal, or perhaps the cold snap. Instead, Zarius’s eyes widened, a flash of genuine surprise flickering through the red.

Then came the laugh.

It wasn’t a pleasant sound, but it was a laugh nonetheless. An amused, vibrating chuckle that Cherion felt through the tips of his fingers.

"You have a lot of nerve for someone so small," Zarius rumbled, the vibration of his voice buzzing against Cherion’s proximity. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded... intrigued. "A kitten with claws. Who would have thought?"

The Duke finally let go. His hand slid away from Cherion’s neck, the sudden loss of contact leaving the skin there feeling strangely chilled. Zarius leaned back into the velvet, making himself comfortable, though the smirk playing on his lips suggested he was far from finished with whatever game this was.

Cherion let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since the previous winter. He straightened his spine, trying to regain some semblance of professional dignity while his pulse was still doing a frantic jig. "I am not a kitten," he muttered under his breath, though it sounded weak even to his own ears.

But whatever ease had settled between them vanished just as quickly.

Zarius’s smirk slipped right off his face. A sudden, violent spasm racked his frame, and the Duke’s face went from amused to deathly pale in the span of a single second. He groaned and his hand flew back to his head, his fingers digging into his scalp with enough force to draw blood.

"Your Grace?" Cherion’s voice went sharp.

Zarius didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Instead, with a groan, he shoved himself upright, fingers stil digging into his hair like it was the only thing keeping him together. The Duke started walking. Slowly. Staggering slightly, like a very tall, very angry puppet with a headache. Not far, just a few steps... before he suddenly collapsed near the couch, knees buckling and torso hitting the floor with a solid thud.

"Your Grace!"

Panic, hot and frantic, surged through Cherion’s veins. He was on the floor in an instant, knees hitting the stone beside the Duke. This wasn’t a normal headache anymore. This wasn’t just "tension." This was the curse roaring back with a vengeance that screamed of a looming ollapse.

Zarius was shaking, his jaw locked so tight Cherion feared his teeth would shatter.

"Look at me, Your Grace! Stay with me!" Cherion cried out, reaching for the Duke’s wrists to pull his hands away from his head. Zarius’s skin felt like ice-covered iron.

Cherion took a deep breath, letting his shoulders drop just enough to remind himself he wasn’t about to explode from panic. Okay. He’d done this before. A soldier earlier today had been injured pretty badly, he dared to say, and he’d fixed that.

Well... relatively easy. But this? This was a whole other league of "no visible wounds, possible magical curse, zero room for error." He blinked at Zarius’s crumpled form. The Duke’s frozen, twitchy, ice-cold limbs weren’t exactly the kind of thing you patched up with a bandage and a cheerful "there you go, all better!"

"You’ve got this, Cherion." He shifted, jiggling his hands like a pianist warming up

He knelt over the Duke’s chest, leaning forward so that his face was only inches from Zarius’s. He placed his palms directly onto Zarius’s forehead, his fingers threading into the dark, sweat-dampened hair. He closed his eyes and reached deep, past the fear, past the exhaustion, into that golden wellspring of the White Vein that supposedly sat at the core of his body.

A soft, honey-colored light began to bloom from beneath his palms. It wasn’t the flashy, theatrical display he used for the soldiers. This was different. It was dense, warm, and smelled faintly of blooming jasmine and rain-washed earth.

The golden radiance grew, spilling over his hands and illuminating the corners of the study. It pushed back against the creeping shadows, fighting for every inch of Zarius’s skin. Cherion felt the strain immediately, it felt like trying to hold back a flood with his bare hands.

He felt Zarius’s breathing begin to slow. The shaking started to ease, leaving him drained. Cherion moved closer, nearly brushing his forehead against Zarius’s, everything else fading into the background.

Cherion let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.

Phew. Okay. Not as bad as before.

PRANG

Cherion flinched at the sound, the golden light wavering but not going out. His heart jumped for the hundredth time that hour.

Cherion blinked at the ceiling, muttering under his breath, "Oh god... what else?"

He didn’t move his hands, but he jerked his head back, looking toward the door.

The tray was tipped over. Pieces of a delicate teacup were scattered across the doorway, tea spreading over the rug like a dark stain.

And standing there, his face a mask of absolute, frozen horror, was Soren.