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Veins spiderwebbing outward in a pattern I’ve seen before—the kind that means the body is fighting something it doesn’t have the strength to beat. Not infection. Not poison. A response.

“Fuck.” It leaves me under my breath, useless as prayer.

Her whole body jerks—twice, three times. Her fingers claw at the sheets, ripping holes through the fabric. She twists like she’s trying to outrun the fire under her skin.

It’s the same look I remember from the Red Sermon’s tents. When they fevered boys for “ascension.” When they burned the weakness out of us and called the survivors blessed.

Most didn’t survive. The ones who did never looked like her.

She gasps suddenly—a broken, strangled sound—and her chest heaves once, twice, then stalls.

No.

Not that.

Not that stuttering I’ve heard before, right before the body starts shutting down.

I slam my palm against her chest—not hard, but desperate—willing the lungs beneath it to move. Move, damn you. Move.

Nothing.

“Selah—” Her name comes out raw enough it scrapes my throat bloody. “Breathe, dammit!”

Her body twitches—a small, broken movement—and air rushes back into her lungs in a desperate rasp.

She gasps sharply, choking on her own breath, back arching as if dragged upward by the throat. A thin cry slips from her mouth, barely audible.

Then—

“Ma—” Her voice splinters. “Malek…”

The sound goes through me like a knife shoved between ribs.

Her saying my name feels like the last string tethering her to this world. Without thinking, I drag her up against my chest, her fevered cheek pressing into my collarbone. She sears my skin, but I hold her anyway—tighter, like I can physically anchor her soul to her body.

“Breathe.” It comes out of me like something torn loose. “Stay here. Stay with me. Don’t you fucking leave me.”

Her trembling deepens. Each breath drags through her like gravel. Her fingers curl once against my chest—then go slack.

I pull her closer, tight enough that it has to hurt one of us, because the pain means she’s still here to feel it. “I swear to whatever gods crawled out of the Reckoning—” My voice turns rough, ruined, almost unrecognizable. “You don’t get to die. Not after I learned how to breathe around wanting you. Not after I made room for you in a chest that was built to hold nothing but violence.” My hand shakes where it touches her, and I despise it. “You do not get to make me human and then leave me to live like a monster.”

Not a promise.

Not a threat.

Only the truth.

I wipe her down again, water dripping everywhere, my hands moving without pause, without hesitation. The rag heats instantly, and I throw it aside, reaching for a cooler one.

Her breath catches again—too shallow, too thin.

I press my forehead to hers, letting her fever scorch me, sear me, brand me.

“You fight,” I whisper. A command wrapped in a plea. “If you’ve got anything left in you, little crow, you fucking fight.”

Her breathing stumbles again. I grip her tighter, a hand on her ribcage to feel it move.

She twitches.