Devon's fever rose so violently that by the time he collapsed onto the sheets, Lucien could feel waves of heat radiating from him like the burn of spell fire.
Rowan tried to bring cold towels, and the healer attempted to diagnose the condition, but none of them could explain how Devon's body could swing from chilled tremors to scorching heat within moments.
Only Lucien, who had seen the brief glow of the runes before Devon fainted, understood that this was no ordinary fever.
When Devon finally drifted into unconscious sleep, his breathing turned shallow, his face pale beneath the flush of fever.
Lucien sat beside him, fingers curled into fists so tight his knuckles whitened. He brushed a damp lock of hair off Devon's forehead, letting his hand linger just a moment longer than necessary.
"You reckless idiot," he whispered, voice breaking. "Why do you always bleed yourself dry?"
