Wyll spat up another few droplets of blood and groaned, lying back on the cot in his tent. He couldn’t be getting sick.

Ever since the Hag’s lair, something had been wrong. He’d been getting weaker by the day, a raging fire underneath his skin. He’d tried everything he could—drinking water, healing potions—hells, he’d even pressed his forehead to every frigid object he could find, hoping for relief that never came.

No matter. He was the Blade of Frontiers. He could power through.

Hopefully.