"Are you gravely ill?" Drakonenth inquired, his voice low yet edged with concern as he carried a basin of fresh water and a neatly folded towel.
The elemental spirit had begun to visit the goddess with unsettling frequency. It stirred something restless within Eirene, a quiet suspicion she could not quite silence. Why would a lesser entity devote himself to her? And he was no ordinary spirit, but one of fire, a force shaped by pride, instinct, and an unyielding will. Fire did not kneel. Fire did not serve.
Did he seek something from her?
What intent could possibly drive him to tend to a goddess so openly despised?
Golden fluid streamed steadily from her nose, thicker than mortal blood, glistening as it trailed down her lips and chin. It carried a faint shimmer, almost beautiful if not for the sickening persistence of it. Drakonenth had already come and gone several times, each return marked by a fresh basin after the previous one turned clouded and ruined by her bleeding.
Still, it would not stop.
Cloth after cloth had been pressed against her face, layered in futile effort. Each one soaked through within moments, warm and heavy before being discarded.
Golden fluid streamed steadily from her nose, thicker than mortal blood, glistening as it trailed down her lips and chin. It carried a faint shimmer, almost beautiful if not for the sickening persistence of it. Drakonenth had already come and gone several times, each return marked by a fresh basin after the previous one turned clouded and ruined by her bleeding.
Still, it would not stop.
Cloth after cloth had been pressed against her face, layered in futile effort. Each one soaked through within moments, warm and heavy before being discarded.
"Does this situation suggest that I am in good health?" Eirene asked, her voice thin yet laced with dry irritation. She took the clean towel from him, her fingers faintly trembling, and dropped the sodden one into the basin.
The moment it touched the surface, the water reacted. It shimmered, then dissolved into a thick, glittering gold, as if the basin itself had been filled with molten sunlight. The substance clung to the fabric before slowly consuming it, reducing the cloth into nothing.
"Nay," Drakonenth replied without hesitation.
"Then why remark upon the obvious?" she sighed, though the effort of even that seemed to weigh on her.
Hours passed, marked only by the slow, relentless dripping of gold and the quiet movements of the fire spirit as he tended to her. The bleeding drew the warmth from her skin until her complexion faded into something unnaturally pale, whiter than fresh snow, touched with a faint translucence that made her seem almost fragile.
Exhaustion settled into her bones.
She curled into herself upon the bed, limbs drawn inward, her posture instinctively protective. In that moment, she looked less like a goddess and more like something small, something breakable. Like a child retreating into the safety of the womb.
Drakonenth remained nearby. He did not speak again. Instead, he extended his arms slightly, releasing a controlled warmth that radiated toward her in gentle waves. The heat was careful, measured, never enough to harm.
The palace itself was cold.
Not the crisp cold of winter, but something deeper. A hollow chill that seemed to seep from the very stone, untouched by the seasons beyond its walls. No frost formed, no snow fell, yet the air carried a stillness that unsettled him.
Magic lingered here.
Old magic.
It watched.
.
.
.
Eirene awoke as though dragged upward from a great depth.
For mortals, such sleep would have spanned days, perhaps longer. For her, it felt incomplete. Her body lay heavy beneath her, unresponsive, as though each limb belonged to something else entirely. Even the simple act of breathing required effort.
Dark shadows pooled beneath her eyes, stark against her pale skin. They did not belong there. Rest should have restored her.
Instead, it had done nothing.
"Drakonenth..." she whispered, her voice barely more than air slipping through parted lips.
Her hair drifted around her, moving with a life of its own. It flowed like a river in slow current, strands shifting and curling despite the stillness of the room.
She searched for him.
There was no answer.
With effort, she pushed herself upright, her back pressing weakly against the headboard. Her arms fell to her sides, useless, as she focused on drawing in breath after breath, each one shallow and uneven.
Then it came.
A cough.
It tore through her chest with violent force, bending her forward. The sound was wrong, thick and wet, as though something dense had lodged itself deep within her lungs.
Another followed.
And another.
She raised a trembling hand to cover her mouth as the coughing worsened, her other hand gripping the bedpost in desperation. The wood creaked faintly under the strain of her grasp.
When the fit finally broke, she looked down.
Her breath stilled.
It was not gold.
It was black.
The substance pooled in her palm, viscous and tar-like, clinging to her skin with unnatural weight. It did not shimmer. It did not glow.
It absorbed light.
"No..." The word escaped her in a fragile whisper before panic surged through her. Her hand jerked, smearing the dark fluid across the pristine sheets. The stain spread quickly, seeping into the fabric like a living thing.
She tried to stand.
Her legs failed her.
The world tilted as she collapsed from the bed, her body striking the cold marble floor with a dull impact, the blanket tangling around her limbs.
The door burst open.
Drakonenth stood there, breath sharp, his sandals and bare feet marked with crushed berries, their dark juices smeared across the floor behind him in uneven trails.
Eirene's hands pressed against the marble as she struggled to push herself up, unknowingly spreading the black substance further. It smeared beneath her palms, thick and resistant.
Then the pain came.
A scream ripped from her throat.
Ichor bled from the corners of her eyes, dark and glistening as it traced down her temples. The sensation was unbearable. It burned, not like flame, but like something invasive, something that did not belong within her.
Her body rejected it.
Her very existence recoiled.
"My goddess, what has happened?" Drakonenth moved toward her, dropping to one knee, but the sight halted him. Something in the air felt wrong. Instinct seized him.
"I shall fetch water!" he declared, already turning, already running.
Her screams followed him.
They filled the halls, sharp and high, echoing against stone and lingering long after the sound itself should have faded.
Her blood was burning her.
Not metaphorically.
Truly.
Smoke began to rise from her skin, thin at first, then more visible, curling upward in faint wisps. Her flesh flushed beneath the surface, as though heat was building from within, seeking escape.
She clawed at her face, her nails dragging across her skin in frantic, uncontrolled motion.
Drakonenth returned quickly, the basin sloshing in his grasp. Without pause, he poured the water over her.
It struck her like a sudden downpour.
The effect was immediate.
The burning across her skin dulled, the heat receding enough for her to draw a ragged breath. But relief did not reach her eyes.
Her eyes—
They burned.
Deep, internal, as though something inside them was rotting under invisible flame.
"Did it help? Did the water help you?" he asked urgently, dropping beside her with a heavy thud.
"It burns!" she cried, her eyes squeezed shut as she latched onto his arm. Her grip tightened with desperate strength, her nails piercing his skin and leaving crescent-shaped marks that welled faintly with heat-tinted blood.
Her voice shifted.
It deepened, fractured, layered with something unnatural that did not belong to her.
"It is searing my skin. It boils inside me, Drakonenth!"
"What? What is causing it?" Panic flickered across his face. For a moment, he recoiled, fear striking him that his own nature had betrayed him. That his fire had slipped beyond his control.
He pulled back, inspecting himself, then her.
There was no flame.
Nothing visible.
"The substance..." she forced out, her breathing uneven, her voice warping further with each word. "The black slime... it burns me. It devours me. It is inside me... consuming, corrupting..."
Horror settled fully into his expression.
He staggered to his feet, unsteady, then moved. Again and again, he rushed for water, returning with basin after basin, throwing it over her in desperate repetition.
The liquid washed over her body, carrying away the black substance in streaks that dissolved upon contact.
Each time, the heat lessened.
Each time, her skin cooled.
But it was not enough.
Eirene continued to writhe against the floor, her body trembling violently as sobs broke through her screams. The pain lingered, crawling beneath her skin, coiling deep within her chest and throat.
Even as the visible signs faded, something remained.
Something unseen.
And it refused to let her go.