The Little Palace was too quiet.

Not the usual disciplined silence — this was different. Heavy. Uneasy. Word had spread in murmurs that the General had not left his chambers all day. That he had dismissed meetings. That Ivan himself had been sent away twice.

You weren’t concerned.

You were curious.

And maybe slightly opportunistic.

The corridor outside his chambers was dim, the guards absent — likely dismissed on his orders. You slipped inside without knocking, quiet as a shadow.

The room was dark except for a single dying lamp. He lay on the bed, still in his black kefta, one arm thrown over his eyes as if blocking out the light.

Perfect.

You moved toward his desk first. Letters. Seals. Maps. If you were going to steal anything, this would be the time.

“You have exactly five seconds,” his voice rasped from the bed, rough and edged with irritation, “to explain why you are in my chambers.”

You froze.

He lowered his arm.

He looked terrible.

His skin was pale — not his usual controlled, marble stillness, but drained. There was a faint flush high on his cheekbones, unnatural against the rest of him. His dark hair clung damply to his forehead, and when he shifted upright, it took effort.

You hadn’t expected that.

“I thought you were asleep,” you said.

“I was,” he replied hoarsely. A cough interrupted him — sharp, dry, and clearly painful. He pressed a hand to his chest, jaw tightening. “Leave.”

You didn’t move.

“I said leave.”

Another cough seized him, longer this time. When it passed, he leaned back against the pillows, breathing slower than usual. The effort of simply sitting there seemed to cost him.

You hesitated — then turned and left the room.

He probably thought he’d won.

You returned minutes later with a bowl of water filled with ice and a clean cloth.

He noticed immediately.

“No,” he said sharply, trying to push himself upright. “I do not require—”

You crossed the room anyway.

“I told you to go away.”

When he tried to lift a hand to stop you, it was slower than it should have been. Weaker.

You caught his wrist easily and pushed it gently but firmly back against the mattress.

His brows drew together — partly anger, partly disbelief. “You overstep.”

You dipped the cloth into the ice water, wrung it out, then placed it against his forehead.

He inhaled sharply at the cold.

For a second, he looked ready to argue again — but the tension in his shoulders loosened despite himself. The fever had clearly been burning for hours; the coolness was a relief his pride didn’t want to admit.

You adjusted the cloth when it warmed, your movements stubborn and steady. He tried once more to lift his hand as if to remove it, but the effort faltered halfway, and his arm dropped back to the bed.

Silence settled between you.

His breathing was uneven. The occasional cough shook him. Without the constant edge of command in his voice, he seemed… human. Smaller, somehow. Not in presence — that never truly faded — but in vulnerability.