Chapter 9: Fever and Fear

ANWEN'S POV

I woke up shivering again.

My skin burned, yet I was drenched in sweat. Damp hair clung to my temples; my nightgown stuck to my back.

None of it surprised me.

The fevers always came like this. Sudden and consuming, wringing me out until I felt hollow. They had followed me for as long as I could remember. If I pushed myself too hard, stayed out too long, forgot to rest, or if the weather simply turned against me... the fever always found me.

But Arlo always found me too.

So when something warm and wet pressed against my forehead, relief washed through me. My muscles loosened. My breath eased.

“Arlo…” My voice came out small, rough with sleep and fever.

No answer.

I blinked my eyes open, but the world remained black. That wasn’t strange. Our small, aging cottage was always dark at night—Arlo insisted on it. No lanterns, no embers, nothing that might draw the monsters prowling the forest above us.

A hand slid beneath my head, lifting it gently. Then a low voice—rougher than it should have been—murmured close to my ear.

“Open up, Anwen. This is for your fever.”

I frowned. That wasn’t Arlo’s voice. My brother’s voice wasn’t that deep, or that gravelly. And it was never this cold with me.

But the fever muddled everything—twisting sounds, blurring edges, making the world feel distant and wrong.

I parted my lips. A vial touched them, cool glass against heat-flushed skin. The moment the liquid hit my tongue, I recoiled, clamping my mouth shut.

“So bitter,” I choked, swallowing against the urge to gag.

“It’s medicine,” he said, his tone oddly dry. “It’s meant to be bitter.”

I scowled weakly. “No. You forgot the berries. You always add berries—I like them.”

A brief pause followed. “I’ll remember next time,” Arlo said. “Now drink.”

I forced myself to swallow the rest, grimacing as the bitterness crawled down my throat. My stomach rolled, but the warmth spreading through my limbs felt soothing, heavy, like sinking into a soft blanket.

In the dark, I reached for him. My fingers found fabric, then muscle—broader than I remembered, firmer, too. I wrapped my arms around him anyway, pulling him close.

He stiffened. Then slowly, he tried to pry himself free.

I tightened my hold. “Don’t go,” I whispered, clinging harder. “Stay with me.”

When he went still, I added, “I’m scared.”

I wasn’t sure why—but I knew I was.

A long breath left him, almost a sigh. The tension drained from his body. Gently, he lowered me back onto the bed. It dipped beside me as he sat, and I curled instinctively toward the warmth.

He smelled wrong. Not pine and smoke and crushed herbs like Arlo always did—this was mint and citrus, edged with something like scorched stone. Still, it soothed me. Or maybe the medicine was finally taking hold.

My eyelids grew heavy. The darkness thickened, soft and deep.

I let it take me.

And I drifted off, certain Arlo was watching over me.

----- ----- -----

When I stirred again, the fever was gone. My skin no longer burned; my thoughts were clear, steady.

For a moment, I lay still, breathing as morning light warmed my face.

I opened my eyes.

I didn’t recognize the ceiling. Or the walls. Or the bed. This wasn't our cottage. A cold jolt went through me, and I pushed myself upright so fast the room tilted.

Then it all came back.

Hands seizing me. Being torn away from Arlo. Monsters crashing through the forest. The struggle. Being dragged here.

My stomach twisted.

So last night hadn’t been real. Arlo hadn’t been real—just a fever dream, giving me what I wanted most. I wasn’t home. I wasn’t safe.

And Arlo…

I didn’t know if he’d been freed, or punished, or worse... The door opened before I could finish the thought.

A man stepped inside. One look at him told me he wasn’t human. He wore no armor like the warriors, his attire was too polished to be one. A palace steward, perhaps.

He inclined his head. “My name is Wells,” he said. “You are asked to join the kings for breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” I replied at once.

Wells didn’t blink. His yellow, serpent-like eyes—ringed in black—narrowed slightly. “The kings thought you might say that,” he said calmly. “They instructed me to inform you that if I return without you, they will come and drag you out themselves.”

A flicker of defiance rose in me. I wanted to test them—see if they would truly follow through.

But the images came too easily: claws, teeth, strength I had no hope of matching. I couldn’t afford to find out if they were bluffing.

I exhaled slowly and pushed the blankets aside.

As I stood, my gaze caught on something draped over the back of a nearby chair, as if placed there for me. A thick knitted sweater.

I hesitated only a moment before reaching for it and pulling it over my head. The fabric swallowed me, but it felt like a shield—and I needed one.

I followed Wells out. The walk was disappointingly short. I’d hoped to memorize hallways, count turns, map escape routes. Instead, we stopped almost immediately at a massive door.

Wells pushed it open.

I braced for a grand hall, a long table, something fitting for kings. Instead, it was a small drawing room with a round table that could seat only three.

And three were already there.

“My kings,” Wells announced, clearing his throat. “The girl is here.”

He nudged me forward. Fenric and Brammon looked up. Rhydan didn’t.

A slow, sharp grin spread across Fenric’s face. “Peaches,” he said.

I frowned. He knew my name. Why call me that? 

“Come. Sit.”

I glanced at the table. There was no empty chair. “There’s nowhere to sit,” I pointed out.

Rhydan’s goblet struck the table with a sharp crack. “We didn’t see the need for one,” he replied, not even sparing me a glance. “No one makes it to morning.”

A chill crept down my spine. I didn’t know what unsettled me more—his words or the sharp edge in his voice. It made me want to turn and walk straight out of the room.

Before I could, Fenric’s hand closed around my wrist and yanked me back. I barely had time to react before he pulled me down onto his lap.

“Don’t listen to him,” he murmured, his voice low, almost amused. “Some last a week.”

Air caught in my throat. I twisted against him, shoving hard, but it was like struggling against a wall. His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, pulling me closer, trapping me against the solid heat of him.

His lips brushed my ear. “You should know by now,” he whispered, “fighting is futile.”

My jaw tightened.

He was right. Fighting them was a waste. I’d rather spend my strength on something that might actually get me out of here.

Fenric reached for a plate already half-filled with food and set it in front of me.

“Eat.”

I picked up the fork without a word.

I took a small bite, expecting it to taste like ash. But to my surprise, it was… good. Rich, deeply seasoned—unlike anything I had ever tasted before. For a few moments, I let myself get lost in the simple pleasure of it.

Until I felt Fenric lean in.

His warm breath ghosted across the sensitive skin of my neck, and I froze. Fenric was sniffing me, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest. And then I felt a distinct, hardening pressure pressing up against me from beneath. 

A jolt of panic shot through me. I shifted, trying to pull away, to put even the smallest distance between us.

A low chuckle brushed my ear. “What? Are you scared of it now?” he teased. “Didn’t you attack it just the other day?”

My appetite vanished, replaced by a cold, queasy twist in my stomach. My knuckles whitened around the fork and knife, the silver biting into my palms. I had the sudden urge to drive the fork into his thigh, but I doubted it would do much to him.

Before I could snap something back, Brammon’s growl rolled across the table. “Fenric,” he said, his tone edged with warning. “The girl needs to eat.”

Fenric let out a soft huff of laughter, but his grip loosened.

The next second, Brammon reached out, his hand closing around my arm. He pulled me off Fenric’s lap and onto his own. I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or more afraid.

Fenric slid my unfinished plate across the table. Brammon caught it with one hand and set it in front of me again.

“Finish,” he said.

Something in the way he said it—the dry command, the rough edge in his voice—felt too familiar. I couldn’t help but look up at him.

His green eyes met mine, holding for a heartbeat longer before his brows drew together. “Mind your plate, Anwen.”

I flinched and dropped my gaze back to the food.