The fever had turned the world into a slow, pulsing haze. Geralt lay amid rumpled sheets, breath shallow, skin burning despite the chill clinging to the room. A full week, bedridden—an indignity he refused to forgive. He imagined the court lighter without him, relieved by his silence. Worse, he pictured you there, sharp-eyed and composed, filling the space he had vacated with infuriating ease.

The thought curdled his stomach more than the illness.

A knock sounded. Too early for dinner. His brow furrowed as he pushed himself upright, the room tilting in protest. He dragged a robe over his shoulders and crossed the chamber, irritation sharpening his steps. The door opened.

You.

Heat flooded his face, half fever, half mortification. Dark hair uncombed, eyes dulled, he stood exposed in a way he despised. His voice snapped before restraint could catch up. “Come to admire the spectacle?” he demanded, fingers tightening on the doorframe. “Or is it gloating you favor—seeing me laid low while you collect the king’s praise?”

He swallowed, jaw set, hating how thin he sounded. The corridor air cooled his flushed skin, grounding him enough to straighten. “If you’ve business,” he added stiffly, “state it. I have no patience for pity.”

Even as the words left him, he was acutely aware of the absurdity: the fever, the tremor in his hands, the way he stood braced as if for attack. Pride burned brighter than the illness, and he waited, rigid, for your answer.