Zehron lay on the worn-out bedding, his body limp from exhaustion. His wounds had been cleaned, and his tattered, blood-stained clothes were replaced with fresh ones.
As Naevira carefully peeled away Zehron's torn shirt, her breath hitched at the sight of the marking on his chest. A deep reddish-brown in hue, the intricate lines stretched from the center of his chest, just below the collarbones, extending outward in delicate, twisting patterns. Some lines curled subtly toward the edges of his chest, while others trailed downward in a natural, flowing design. Though not large, the mark stood out against his fair skin, its presence both ancient and unshaken—etched upon him like an unspoken truth waiting to be unveiled.
Naevira sat beside him, her hands trembling as she dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, wrung it out, and gently placed it on his forehead. His skin burned with fever, beads of sweat forming along his temple.
His breathing was heavy, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms, and soft groans of discomfort escaped his lips. He frowned, brows knitting together, his body shifting slightly as though the pain refused to let him rest.
Vaedros stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression hardened with worry. "Damn them..." he muttered under his breath, his fists clenched.
Naevira glanced at him but said nothing. She focused on her son, dabbing his face with the cool cloth. "Zehron, my love, stay strong," she whispered, brushing his damp hair away from his forehead.
Zehron's fingers twitched slightly, but he did not respond. The fever had taken hold, and the long night ahead would test his strength even further.
.
.
Zehron has been sick for two days and is swallowed in a deep sleep, during those two days of fever, Zehron is trapped in an unsettling, dreamlike state. His body feels unbearably heavy, as if bound by unseen chains, while a mysterious force calls to him from the depths of an unknown realm. The voice isn't clear—it's more of a presence, a vibration that reverberates through his mind and soul, like the whisper of the earth itself.
Even in his weakened state, his spiritual energy surges, amplifying his connection to the divine. Before, he could communicate with plants and animals through the subtle vibrations of his mind, a resonance that allowed him to understand their emotions and intentions. But now, something greater is awakening—a deeper bond, a calling beyond the physical world.
As he drifts deeper into the fevered abyss, a vision takes hold.
He finds himself standing in the midst of a vast, ancient forest, its trees towering endlessly into a sky veiled in mist. The air is thick, humming with an otherworldly energy. Before him, nestled in the tangled roots of a colossal tree, lies a baby, its tiny form eerily still. A pulse of sorrow washes over him—the child is lifeless. But before he can react, he feels himself being drawn toward it, his very essence unraveling, until suddenly—
He becomes the baby.
His eyes snap open, but the world around him is no longer the same. He is floating, weightless, adrift in an infinite void.
And then, he sees her.
Elvienne stands before him—fragile, distant, lost. Her once-radiant eyes are now dull and lifeless, dark circles staining her delicate face. Her mascara has streaked down her cheeks, the silent proof of countless tears. Her gaze locks onto him, empty yet pleading, as though she can see him yet cannot reach him. The Everveil tree,next to her looks dull and withered, the fallen leaves of the tree circling around her and slowly pulling her away to the abyss.
Zehron's chest tightens in panic. He reaches for her—but no matter how fast he runs, how desperately he stretches his hand forward, she drifts further away. The shadows swallow her form, the abyss claiming her inch by inch.
And just like that—
His eyes fly open in reality screaming "Vienne.." . His body jerks as he gasps for breath, chest rising and falling violently. Sweat clings to his skin, his breaths coming in ragged huffs.
Naevira and Vaedros rush to his side. His mother presses a soothing hand against his burning forehead, whispering worried reassurances, while his father, despite his usual stern demeanor, watches with rare concern.
"You're burning up, Zehron," Naevira murmurs, gently pushing him back onto the bed, dabbing his forehead with a cool cloth.
Zehron struggles to focus, his mind still reeling from the vision. His hands twitch, aching from the sensation of grasping nothing.
"Vienne…" he breathes out weakly, his heart aching with an unshakable sense of dread.
His father exchanges a glance with Naevira, who only shakes her head and continues tending to their son.
"Rest, my child," she whispers, urging him to close his eyes.
And though Zehron tries to fight it, exhaustion weighs down on him, dragging him once more into unconsciousness.
But the echoes of his vision remain.
---
The Third Day – Noon
A faint light seeped through the wooden window, casting a soft glow over the dimly lit room. The air carried the faint scent of herbs, a mix of medicinal salves and the gentle warmth of the broth that had been simmering since morning.
Zehron's eyelashes fluttered, his breath hitching as he stirred. His body ached, a dull pain settling deep into his muscles, but compared to the agony of that night, it was bearable. He inhaled sharply, his throat dry as parchment. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm now, no longer weighed down by fever.
A rustle of fabric.
"Zehron?" A tender voice broke through the silence. His mother, Naevira, sat beside him, her usually composed face marred with exhaustion. Dark circles lined her eyes, yet they still held warmth as she leaned in, placing a hand on his forehead.
His lips parted, and he tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"You've been unconscious for two days," Naevira murmured, her fingers brushing his damp hair away from his forehead. "I was beginning to worry you wouldn't wake up…" Her voice wavered slightly, betraying the fear she had carried in her heart.
Zehron blinked, his vision still adjusting. He felt something warm press against his lips—Naevira, holding a small wooden cup to his mouth. "Drink, my son."
He obeyed, swallowing the lukewarm broth she had carefully fed him throughout his fevered state. The taste was bland, yet comforting. He hadn't eaten for two days, but his mother had ensured he wouldn't wither away. She had spoon-fed him herbal-infused broths and carefully poured water between his lips while he lay unconscious.
Naevira let out a relieved sigh as he drank. "You'll feel weak for a while," she said gently, setting the cup aside. "But you're here, and that's all that matters."
Zehron exhaled, sinking back into the pillow. His limbs still ached, but as he met his mother's watchful gaze, he found a sliver of peace amid the pain.