The hallway felt weird this morning. Not bad, just different. Cherion stretched, shoulders popping in the silence, still trying to figure out why his chest felt so light.
He felt… Well, he felt suspiciously really good.
This whole "transfer of magical healing energy" gig? It was actually working. No complex rituals, no chanting in dead languages that tasted like copper, no sacrificing goats in the moonlight. Just holding hands. Holding freaking hands.
Cherion looked down at his palm, still feeling the phantom warmth of Zarius's skin against his own. If this were a video game, his MP would be flashing red, but the Duke's health bar was finally, mercifully, ticking upward. It was a win. A massive, sleep-deprived win.
By the time he got to his door, he was humming something off-key and half-made up. He stopped when he saw it wasn't fully closed. Just barely open.
Cherion frowned. Had he left it open? He was pretty sure his brain wasn't that fried.
