(Romulus POV)
Morning arrived without mercy.
The light crept into the chamber in thin, pale bands, touching the edge of the bed where Almera lay and stopping there, as if even the sun knew better than to disturb her. The physician had not slept. Neither had I.
Her breathing was shallow, uneven—each breath a fragile negotiation with the poison still coiled beneath her skin. The fever had returned during the night, creeping higher despite every careful measure taken to hold it back. Damp hair clung to her temples, her lashes trembling faintly as she drifted between waking and darkness.
"She is getting weaker." the physician said quietly.
I did not look at him. I did not need to.
"How long does she have?" I asked.
The pause before he answered was the cruelest sound in the room.
"I cannot say with certainty," he replied. "The detoxification has stalled. The poison remains dormant—but unstable. If it surges again—"
He stopped himself.
I finished the thought in silence.
