Bloodlines and Betrayals

Lorien

I was shaking. Not from the cold or the exhaustion, but from something far worse—realization. The kind that sits heavy in your chest and claws at your gut like it’s trying to dig its way out. It wasn’t just dread—it was the sharp, bone-deep ache of being reminded once again just how powerless I truly was.

I sat in silence, my arms wrapped tightly around Lucian, who trembled against me, his small fingers twisted into the fabric of my shirt. Both of us sat frozen, our eyes fixed on Caius’s body laid across the cot, too still, too pale.

His chest barely rose beneath the worn linen, his breath so shallow it was almost imperceptible. His little fingers didn’t twitch. His lips were turning that horrible grey-blue shade I had seen once before—right before his last fever had nearly taken him.

And yet, despite everything—despite the urgency, the fear, the choking panic—I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The room felt warped, like a nightmare, like the world had shifted just slightly off