Elsewhere, Caelith stirred.
He lay in the infirmary, the smell of herbs and smoke heavy in the air. His bandaged side burned with each shallow breath. For a long moment he play still, listening.
The alarm had faded, but something remained wrong. The quiet was too strained. The shadows too heavy.
He pushed himself upright, hissing in pain. A healer stirred, rushing toward him. "Your Highness, you mustn't—"
"Where is Evelisse?" Caelith's voice was hoarse but firm. His silver eyes gleamed despite the fever.
The healer stammered. "The princess is secure, my lord. Please—"
But Caelith had already swung his legs over the side of the cot. His hand found the hilt of his sword leaning against the wall.
As he staggered into the hall, he realized something strange. The guards he passed looked… different. Their eyes were unfocused, their stances slack. One saluted him sluggishly, as though half-dreaming.
