In the afternoon, Damian finally emerged from Eilika's chambers. Though the terrifying heat of her fever had finally begun to recede, a new anxiety gnawed at him: she remained trapped in an unnaturally deep sleep, unresponsive to the world around her.
As he entered the drawing room, he found his close friend Louis waiting on one of the velvet-upholstered sofas.
"Louis, when did you arrive?" Damian asked, his voice weary and strained from the long vigil.
Louis rose immediately, offering a formal bow. "Your Grace," he acknowledged, before his expression shifted to one of genuine concern. "I arrived barely ten minutes ago. I heard that the Duchess has fallen ill." He lifted his head, his sharp eyes searching Damian's face for the truth.
"Yes," Damian murmured, rubbing his temples. "She injured her ankle last night, and things took a turn for the worse quite suddenly."
