"Honestly, Cherion, Iām beginning to lose track of which one of us is supposed to be the dying patient."
The voice was like grinding stones, cutting through the heavy silence in that library. Zarius slammed his own book shut and just sat there. The Duke was staring at him. It wasnāt that predatory, wolf-like gaze he usually leveled at the world, it was something else. Something twisted with a grudging, grumpy sort of concern that he clearly didnāt know how to wear properly.
Cherion blinked, his vision swimming for a second as he pulled his focus away from the book. "Huh?"
"You heard me," Zarius muttered, leaning back until his chair groaned in protest. He gestured vaguely toward Cherionās face with his hand. "You look like a walking corpse. Iāve seen men in the middle of a plague ward who had more color in their cheeks than you do right now. Do you even remember what sunlight looks like, or have you decided to become a library bat?"
Cherion snorted, the sound echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings. He wanted to offer a witty retort, something about how Northern āsunlightā was just a different shade of grey anyway, but he didnāt have the energy. He caught his reflection in the polished silver inkwell on the table.
God, he really did look like a cold mess. The bruised shadows under his eyes were already halfway to full panda status. All he needed now was a couple of smudges on his eyelids to complete the look.
It had been ten days. Ten whole days since heād stepped into the home of the man who was supposedly the future villain of this story. Technically speaking, everything was going smoothly.
Heād accidentally won over the kitchen staff with "tacos," when all heād really wanted was to cook himself something tasty and nostalgic from his old world. And somehow, heād also built a good reputation with the soldiers and staff he healed, despite the fact that heād only been trying to practice his magic.
Of course, not everyone appreciated it. Some refused his help outright, muttering all kinds of accusations about his motives. But honestly? He didnāt give a damn.
But the cost was starting to show.
Sleep had basically become something he was too broke to afford. He read from sunset to midnight, and even when he finally could lie down, he still couldnāt actually sleep thanks to this whole ridiculous "hospitality" thing.
He thought about his bedroom, beautiful, spacious, almost as grand as the one heād had back at the Royal Palace. Every evening, a fresh bundle of firewood was delivered. And every evening, it was the same disaster. The logs were damp. Not just slightly wet, but completely soggy, like someone had deliberately soaked them in sleet before dropping them off. They never caught fire. They only hissed and spat, filling the room with thick, bitter smoke that burned his eyes and scraped his throat raw. It smelled like a swamp trying to cosplay as a campfire, and it produced absolutely no warmth.
Heād spend hours curled up under thin blankets that felt emotionally supportive at best, physically useless at worst, shivering like a wet cat until he eventually passed out for a short, miserable nap after feeding paper scraps into a sad little flame an hour before Soren came knocking. He was always awake before the attendant arrived anyway. The cold wouldnāt let him do anything else.
"Iām fine," Cherion lied, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears. "Thereās nothing to worry about."
Suddenly, the air beside him shifted. One second Zarius was across the table, and the next he was just... there. Apparently, the man moved like a very large, very intimidating house cat.
With one hand on the table, Zarius leaned in at a pace that shouldāve come with suspense music. His other hand lifted, slowly and very illegally to Cherionās personal space, and next thing he knew, Zarius was casually holding his cheek like it belonged to him.
For a heartbeat, Cherion almost leaned into it. He was so tired, so devastatingly cold, that the simple human warmth of a hand felt like a miracle. But then, reality snapped back.
Cherionās face went bright red, and definitely not from any magic. "Ahaha... no! Seriously, Your Grace!" He shoved at the hand, arms flailing, and tipped dangerously in his chair. "Iām trying to focus! On... on reading! Not on... whatever youāre doing with that giant hand of yours!"
He shoved his face back into the book, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His eyes blurred over the text, but he forced himself to read. Transferal. Magic. Energy.
Cherionās eyes went wide, like heād just spotted a puppy in a pile of laundry. A small, guilty smile crept onto his face. Oh... this was about transferring healing energy.
But then he read the next line.
THUMP
Cherion snapped the book shut like it had personally offended him. He clutched it to his chest, knuckles so white he couldāve passed for a porcelain doll. His breathing came in shallow, panicked bursts, and for a second, he half-expected the book to bite back.
Zariusās hand hovered in midair like it had been caught in a spider web, brow furrowed, watching Cherion like a cat judging a failed mouse. Cherion didnāt know whether to apologize, explain, or just curl into a fetal position behind the book. Probably all three at once.
"Chreion?" Zarius asked, his voice low and laced with a confusion that was rapidly turning into suspicion. "What did you just find? You look like youāve seen a ghost. Or a death warrant."
Cherion froze for a moment, his eyes flicking up at Zarius, wide and guilty. He caught himself staring longer than he intended and immediately felt the unmistakable heat of shame creep up his neck. He snapped his gaze back down to the book in his hands, pretending it was the most absorbing thing in the world.
Ha! You have no idea. Itās way worse than a ghost or a death warrant. Definitely worse. Probably... catastrophically worse. Yeah...