𝙰 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚁𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜: 𝚂𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚌 𝙴𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔦𝔳𝔢(𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 37)

     No one, not even Lucien, came to fix my arm in the days following my victory. The pain overwhelmed me to the point of screaming whenever I prodded the embedded bit of bone, and I had no other option but to sit there, letting the wound gnaw on my strength, trying my best not to think about the constant throbbing that shot sparks of poisoned lightning through me.

     But worse than that was the growing panic--panic that the wound hadn't stopped bleeding. I knew what it meant when blood continued to flow. I kept one eye on the wound, either out of hope that I'd find the blood clotting, or the terror that I'd spy the first signs of infection.

     I couldn't eat the rotten food they gave me. The sight of it aroused such nausea that a corner of my cell now reeked of vomit. It didn't help that I was still covered in mud, and the dungeon was perpetually freezing.

     I was sitting against the far wall of my cell, savoring the coolness of the stone beneath my back. I'd awoken from a fitful sleep and found myself burning hot. A kind of fire that made everything a bit muddled. My injured arm dangled at my side as I gazed dully at the cell door. It seemed to sway, its lines rippling.

    This heat in my face was some kind of small cold--not a fever from infection. I put a hand on my chest, and dried mud crumbled into my lap. Each of my breaths was like swallowing broken glass.

     Not a fever. Not a fever. Not a fever.

     My eyelids were heavy, stinging. I couldn't go to sleep. I had to make sure the wound wasn't infected, I had to--to

     The door actually did move then--no, not the door, but rather the darkness around it, which seemed to ripple.

     Real fear coiled in my stomach as a female figure formed out of that darkness, as if she'd slipped in from the cracks between the door and the wall, hardly more than a shadow.

     Rhysand was fully corporeal now, and her violet eyes glowed in the dim light. She slowly smiled from where she stood by the door. "What a sorry state for Tamlin's champion."

"Go to Hell," I snapped, but the words were little more than a wheeze. My head was light and heavy all at once. If I tried to stand, I would topple over.

      She stalked closer with that feline grace and dropped into an easy crouch before me. She sniffed, grimacing at the corner splattered with my vomit. I tried to bring my feet into a position more inclined for scrambling away or kicking her in the face, but they were full of lead.

      Rhysand cocked her head. Her pale skin seemed to radiate alabaster light. I blinked away the haze, but couldn't even turn aside my face as her cold fingers grazed my brow.

"What would Tamlin say," she murmured, "if he knew his beloved was rotting away down here, burning up with fever? Not that he can even come here, not when his every move is watched."

      I kept my arm hidden in the shadows. The last thing I needed them to know was how weak I was.

"Get away," I said, and my eyes stung as the words burned my throat. I had difficulty swallowing.

      She raised an eyebrow. "I come here to offer you help, and you have the nerve to tell me to leave?"

"Get away," I repeated. My eyes were so sore that it hurt to keep them open.

"You made me a lot of money, you know. I figured I would repay the favor."

      I leaned my head against the wall. Everything was spinning—spinning like a top, spinning like  I kept my nausea down.

"Let me see your arm," she said too quietly.

      I kept my arm in the shadows—if only because it was too heavy to lift.