The dark pressed heavy on me. It had no shape, no breath, no weight, yet it sat upon my chest like a tombstone. My lungs dragged against it, clawing for air that tasted of smoke and sickness. Every cough split me open anew, ribs grinding, throat raw. The fever came and went in waves, drowning me, leaving me adrift in currents I could neither fight nor escape.
I surfaced in moments. Garron's face hovered close, his eyes rimmed red from sleeplessness, his hands rough as they pressed a rag against my brow. "Stay with me," he muttered, his voice gravel worn thin. "If you drift now, you'll sink. You hear me, boy? You'll sink."
I tried to answer, but only a rattle escaped, some half-breath that carried no strength. My tongue was thick, my lips cracked. Still, I forced myself to focus. Garron's presence was anchor enough to keep me from slipping fully into the undertow.
Yet in the shadows beyond him, I saw shapes.
