The medicine in Marron's chest felt like winter—cold and clean and temporary. She could feel it working, a silver barrier between her mind and the Blade's song, but already the edges were warming. The joy leaked through in thin threads, testing the boundary.
One day. Maybe less.
Aldric secured the wrapped Blade to the food cart with trembling hands, using leather straps reinforced with iron buckles. "If it flares again—if you feel the joy—you tell me immediately."
"And then what?" Marron's voice came out flat. She was so tired. "You lock me up? Tie me down? The joy doesn't care about rope, Aldric."
"Then I'll—" He stopped, his throat working. "I'll do what I have to. To keep you from hurting someone."
The unsaid words hung between them: To keep you from hurting yourself.
