G'raha's shivers worsened and he huddled closer to the fireplace, desperate for any bit of warmth he could get. It was as though the cold was ingrained in his very bones, and he was firmly in its grasp, the fire unable to thaw it.

"I don't understand," he murmured shakily to himself. A thick fur blanket was wrapped tightly around him, and the best chirurgeons in Sharlayan had insisted his body temperature was normal. And yet he could not shake the chill.

His friends had been searching for an answer for days now, poring over every last tome they could find to try and ascertain what malady had befallen him, but were all coming up empty. G'raha had even considered traveling to the Crystal Tower, in case his stay there had somehow made him ill, but was too weak to travel to Mor Dhona.

"Please, my friends, I'm certain it's nothing," he'd told them, the guilt over worrying his companions eating him alive. Still, they were determined, and he was grateful, but...he wasn't sure there was an answer. No amount of warmth or repose had helped, and no medicine or magic had eased his symptoms.

Perhaps his latest adventure had taken its toll. Perhaps the repeated strain from spatial and time travel, being unmade and remade again, had affected his very aether. Perhaps this was it, for him.

G'raha had never been afraid to lay down his life, and yet the thought of losing it meaninglessly was terrifying to him.

His mind was swirling with thoughts of the worst when a hand brushed his arm, and he felt a pleasant warmth radiating from the touch. He jolted in surprise, his eyes wide as he stared up at the owner of the hand resting on his shoulder.

"Y-You needn't worry about me," he stammered. G'raha didn't want to impose, but when the hand moved away, his own shot up to grab it. "I, ah, my apologies. But you feel so...warm." He swallowed, his gaze lowering for a moment. "I don't mean to bother, and don't feel obliged, but if you don't mind..."

He wasn't sure how to ask, but he was in grave need of a hug, of more of that warmth.