This isn’t new. Not entirely.
I have seen this before.
My father, when the winters were at their worst, would clutch his chest the same way. He’d sink to his knees in the cottage, struggling for breath, panic tightening every muscle. I’d kneel beside him on the uneven floor, guide his breathing, rub circles into his back until the stiffness eased.
It never fixed him. But it kept him alive.
“Slow breaths,” I urge, sliding my hand higher along Luceran’s spine, grounding him the way I did for my father. “Not too deep. Match me.”
I inhale slowly through my nose. Exhale softly through my mouth.
Luceran’s breaths hitch and stutter, but he tries. His eyes fix on my mouth, mimicking me as his jaw ticks with effort.
“That’s it,” I whisper, leaning closer. “Stay with me.”
His body is too heavy for me to lift, but I keep him upright, bracing my shoulder beneath his. His silken hair brushes my cheek and the contact sends a strange shiver down my spine.
His pulse flutters violently beneath my fingers.
Not good.
I need something to open his chest, ease the tightness, ground the magic writhing under his skin.
“Stay here,” I breathe. “Do not move.”
As if he could.
I push off him and sprint to the galley, skidding across the stone floor. I snatch thyme and wintermint from the hooks, crush them quickly between my palms until their oils release.
Then I fill a cup with steaming tea and drop the crushed herbs inside, swirling the mixture until it turns fragrant.
When I return, Luceran is on both knees, fists planted on the floor, breath ragged and uneven. His hair hangs over his face, hiding his expression, but the tremor in his shoulders betrays him.
“My lord,” I say gently, kneeling in front of him. “Drink this.”
He doesn’t lift his head.
“Drink this now!” I command.
His eyes snap to mine, wild, bright, burning with something fierce and wounded. But he takes the cup. His hand shakes so hard I have to wrap my fingers over his to steady it.
He drinks.
The herbs work quickly, warming the throat, easing the chest. His breathing slows, not smooth, but steadier. His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension in his arms easing.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“You’re alright,” I whisper.
His gaze lingers on me. The runes along his chest dim slowly beneath his shirt, their frantic pulse settling into something calmer.
“Why,” he rasps, voice torn raw, “Why did you help me?”
My heartbeat stumbles.
But I give the only truth I can bear to speak.
“Because I have a debt to pay. Because the honor of my family depends on it. The Devlins may be a small kin and dirt poor, but we are proud, my lord.”
