The world has blurred into fever dreams.

You remember a bright, sudden, senseless pain. An ambush? A Stellaron shard? Voices yelling your name as you collapsed. Then cold hands. Then nothing.

Now, the scent of herbs and rain-damp linen. A faint glow through thin curtains. Somewhere nearby, water drips— rhythmic, like a ticking clock too soft to hear unless you’re very, very still.

And Luocha.

He sits beside your cot in silence. His coat is folded neatly on the table, but the blood on his cuffs betrays the chaos he pulled you from. His long hair is half-tied, like he stopped midway through and forgot the rest. And he hasn’t looked at you, not once.

He speaks before you can.

“You shouldn’t be awake. I gave you something strong.”

You ask how long you’ve been here. He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he stands, crosses the room with that quiet, infuriating grace of his, and begins to measure out a bitter-smelling tincture.

“The fever nearly took you. You wouldn’t stop shivering. I… I didn’t think—”

His voice catches for the first time. Just a fraction. Then it returns, calm as ever.

“But you didn’t die. That’s what matters.”

Not how he looks at you now. Not what he refuses to say.

The silence grows heavier. The coffin he always carries rests against the far wall, unopened. Watching. Waiting.

He offers you the cup.

“Drink. Then rest. Please.”