A month passed.
What should have been peace settled into unease instead.
Min-jae fell ill without warning.
At first it was a mild fever. Then a lingering heat. Then nights where his skin burned beneath Meical's palms and mornings where he could barely open his eyes.
Two weeks.
Two full weeks and the fever showed no sign of breaking. If anything, it worsened.
The physician never truly left the estate anymore. He slept in a spare room, ate quickly, and was summoned at all hours. Every tonic had been tried. Every herb brewed. Every pulse taken with a deepening frown.
"I don't understand it," the physician admitted quietly one evening. "His vitals are strong. His body should be fighting this."
Meical sat at the bedside, fingers threaded carefully through Min-jae's damp hair, not trusting himself to speak.
What unsettled them most was the air around Min-jae.
It felt pleasant.
It was warm, soft.
Almost comforting.
