(Romulus POV)
Dawn did not bring relief.
Light crept into the chamber in pale, reluctant bands, touching the carved pillars and the edge of the bed where Almera lay too still. The physician had drawn the curtains back only enough to watch her breathing, counting each rise and fall as if numbers could bargain with fate.
I stood at the bedside, unmoving.
Her skin was warm—too warm—yet her hands were cold in mine. Sweat beaded at her temples, darkening strands of hair that clung to her cheek. Every few moments, her brow would knit faintly, a silent protest her body could no longer voice.
She drifted.
In and out.
As if the world were a shoreline she could no longer quite reach.
"The poison has been slowed," the physician said quietly, as though volume alone might worsen her condition. "But it remains active beneath the surface."
"How long?" I asked.
He hesitated. Too long.
"Days," he admitted at last. "Perhaps fewer, if her strength wanes."
Days.
