Emmalise was fighting to stay awake. Her eyes kept drooping despite her best efforts, her body heavy with fever. Her throat burned, her skin was hot to the touch, and every breath felt like a struggle.
She could vaguely hear Claude's voice—calm, steady—speaking with the royal physician. When she managed to crack her eyes open again, he was already at her bedside.
"Am I… going to die?" she asked weakly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Claude wanted to laugh—not because it was funny, but because the question was so kinda stupid. It was his idea to make her sick and drink the pathogens herself. Of course she won't die as long as he still there.
Yet with the doctors and maids still present, he held back and instead replied smoothly, with a reassuring smile.
"Of course not, Your Majesty. You'll be just fine."
But before another word could be said, a loud commotion erupted outside the room. Someone was shouting, demanding entry.
