At first, it was subtle. A strange weightlessness in his limbs. A distant warmth blooming low in his spine. Then came the vertigo, the tilting sensation that the ground itself had lost its loyalty to his feet. His hand shot up to grip his temple, but the disorientation was swift and unforgiving.
Within seconds, the mighty Lunar King crumpled to the cold stone floor, the folds of his cloak splaying beneath him like a silken eclipse.
Seravine caught his fall not with alarm—but with timing.
She knelt beside him slowly, not out of panic, but precision. Her fingers hovered over his chest, watching his breath shallow with each rise. His body was burning now. The fever had taken hold.
She had seen it before.
After all, she had given it to him.
The Crimson Pulse.
