Chapter 63: A Whole Lot of Waiting

"You said he’d wake up soon, but it’s been three days."

He remained standing by the bedpost. Outside, the northern night was pitch black, but inside, the soft glow from the firelight only made the quiet shape on the bed stand out more.

Cherion hadn’t moved. Not a finger.

His eyes were still closed, sealed shut as if by some invisible wax. It had been seventy-two hours since the forest and the terrifying sight of black, poisoned blood.

He’d been careless. Gods, he’d been so damn arrogant.

He was the Shield of the North, built to withstand toxins, trained to survive venom, hardened against assassination. He was used to potions, to toxins, to the slow, burning crawl of venom in his veins. A "scratch" from a traitor like Soren should have been an inconvenience, a temporary sting. He could have survived it. He would have survived it.

But Cherion hadn’t known that.

The boy had seen the blood and simply... detonated. That blinding, golden explosion of healing energy still felt like a physical burn on Zarius’s skin. Cherion hadn’t just closed the wound, he’d poured every ounce of his healing energy into Zarius, frantic and desperate, until there was nothing left for himself. He’d healed Zarius, then he’d healed the minor scrapes on his own frame, and then, like a candle being snuffed out by a sudden gale, he had simply ceased to be awake.

Zarius had carried him back. Cherion felt like a bundle of dry sticks and silk in his arms, his head lolling against Zarius’s shoulder with a terrifying, limp trust. Zarius didn’t bring him back to the boy’s room. He took him to his own bed.

"I told you, My Lord. I have told you ten times tonight alone."

The voice came from the foot of the bed. Master Elwan, the grizzled, weary healer who had spent a decade trying to clear out his curse, let out a long, rattling sigh. He adjusted his spectacles, his eyes softening as they landed on the unconscious boy.

"There is no poison in him. There is no wound I can find with spell or herb," Elwan said, his tone hovering somewhere between professional patience and sheer exhaustion. "He is simply... drained. He didn’t just use his mana, he ran it dry and kept reaching for more. And he was already weak out there in the cold. This is his body forcing him to recover. It is a deep sleep. A recovery. All we can do is wait for him to wake up when he’s ready."

"Wait," Zarius repeated. The word tasted like ash.

"Yes, wait," Elwan insisted, packing his leather kit with a definitive snap. "He is young. He is strong. But even the sun must set to rise again. You, however, look like you’re about to join the ancestors. When was the last time you ate or rest?"

Zarius didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at him.

From the shadows near the door, Elios and Flio exchanged a look of concern. Elios stepped forward. He looked at his Duke, the man who had led them through border wars and blizzard sieges without ever breaking, and saw someone on the verge of a total psychological collapse.

"My Lord," Elios called. "He’s right. You’re pacing like a caged wolf. Everything is secure. Soren is in the dark, where he belongs. The boy is breathing. You need to rest. We’ll sit with him."

"No," Zarius barked. The word was too loud for the room, making Flio flinch. Zarius’s hand tightened on the bedpost until the wood groaned. "I am not leaving this room."

Flio didn’t look happy with what Zarius said. "But, Your Grace. You haven’t been resting or eating properly. At this point, you will follow Lord Cherion, too."

Zarius closed his eyes. Flio wasn’t wrong. He had barely left this room. He’d tried to return to his duties, to lose himself in reports, but the words never held. His focus always drifted back to the bed. The curse had flared again that morning, but it didn’t matter.

"Leave. All of you."

"But..." Elios began, but Zarius’s glare stopped him in his tracks.

"Out," the Duke commanded. It wasn’t a roar this time. It was a whisper, which was infinitely more dangerous.

They left. Elwan followed them, shaking his head and muttering something about "stubborn Northern." The door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the vaulted ceiling before fading into the crackle of the fire.

Finally, Zarius was alone with the silence.

He didn’t stand by the post anymore. He sank into the velvet-lined chair he’d dragged to the bedside forty-eight hours ago.

He reached out. His leather glove was still on, so he pulled it off with his teeth, tossing it carelessly on the table, and then he reached out again.

He took Cherion’s hand.

It was so damn small.

Zarius stared at the contrast. His own palm was a map of violence, scarred, broad, calloused from a lifetime of gripping hilts and reins. Cherion’s hand was a delicate thing of pale skin and elegant fingers, looking like it belonged to a scholar or an artist, not a man who lived in the shadow of a monster. It felt fragile. Like if Zarius squeezed too hard, it would simply shatter.

He thought about the way they usually touched, their usual transfer of healing energy. The way Cherion would scold him, his blue eyes sparking with a fire that made Zarius feel... alive. He missed that.

Zarius leaned forward, his large hand completely enveloping Cherion’s. He could feel the pulse.

"You’ve had your rest," Zarius whispered. He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching the edge of the mattress. "You wanted to be free, right? You can’t do that if you’re hiding in your own head."

He squeezed the smaller hand. "Open your eyes, Cherion. I’m not good at waiting. You know this. If you don’t wake up soon, I might just have to go back into the forest and find something else to get stabbed by, just to see if that brings you back."

He stayed there in the dark, his fingers interlaced with Cherion’s, didn’t have any intention to let go.