The fever did not strike like a sword; it seeped like poison.
It came first as heat in my chest, a restless fire that no cold cloth could quench. Then it spread to my limbs, slow, insidious, until even the weight of the blanket felt like armor laid over an open flame. My breath turned shallow, ragged. My body, once the tool I had honed against countless battles, betrayed me—each joint trembling, each muscle twitching, as though my veins carried sparks instead of blood.
I could hear them outside.
The army never slept as one; there were always whispers in the dark, muttered stories shared by men who feared silence more than death. My name surfaced in those whispers, carried low, uncertain. It was different now. Not the tone of men praising a commander, nor the steady respect of soldiers speaking of a leader who had brought them through fire. No—this was sharper, wary, as though my name itself might burn their tongues.
