"Bleugh… bleuuugh…"
'Make it stop.'
Another wave hit him hard, pulling the breath from his lungs. The cold porcelain pressed against his forehead, the taste of acid burning his tongue.
"Bleugh…"
'It hurts.'
His stomach twisted again, and tears slipped down his cheeks—silent and hot.
"Y-Your Highness… are you alright?" Cashew's gentle voice floated through the door, hesitant and laced with worry.
Florian sat crumpled on the cold, marble floor, clutching his stomach, body trembling. He could barely lift his head.
"I'm… fine, Cashew," he managed hoarsely, his voice raw from retching.
"A-Are… you sure? You don't want me to call the doct—"
"I said I'm fine, Cashew!" Florian snapped, sharper than he intended.
A heavy silence followed, and guilt immediately washed over him. His lips trembled.
"Cashew, I'm—"
"It's okay, Your Highness," Cashew said quietly. "I… I'll bring you some tea. Something gentle for your stomach."
