POV: Ravenna
Six days after Lucien's death, I woke up feeling wrong.
Not just tired. Not just stressed. Wrong in a way that went deeper than exhaustion or worry about the hearing tomorrow.
My arm ached. The wound from Solace's torn wing throbbed with a pain that felt too sharp, too deep for something that should have been healing by now. The bandages were clean. Lysander had changed them yesterday. But the ache had spread. Radiating from the wound site toward my shoulder, my chest.
I ignored it.
There was too much to do. Too much to prepare. The hearing was tomorrow and I needed to make sure every detail was perfect. Every piece of testimony ready. Every argument airtight.
I got dressed carefully, favoring my wounded arm. Met with Father and his advisors in the morning. Went over testimony. Reviewed precedent. Argued about strategy.
By midday, I was dizzy.
The throne room tilted slightly when I stood too fast. Colors blurred at the edges of my vision. I gripped the edge of the table and breathed through it until the world settled.
"Princess?" one of the advisors asked. "Are you well?"
"Fine," I lied. "Just tired."
Father's eyes narrowed but he didn't call me out. Just watched me with that careful expression that meant he was cataloging every detail.
The meeting continued. More arguments about whether to emphasize the bond's nature or Lucien's rule-breaking. Whether to put Theron on the stand or keep him silent. Whether my testimony alone would be enough.
I contributed when I could. But my head was swimming. The ache in my arm was spreading. Climbing up my neck. Settling behind my eyes.
By evening, I was feverish.
I felt it in my skin. Too hot. Too tight. Like I was burning from the inside out. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cool air in my chambers.
Morgana took one look at me and swore.
"You're sick."
"I'm fine."
"You're a LIAR." She pressed her hand to my forehead. "Gods, Rav, you're burning up. How long have you felt like this?"
"Since this morning." The words came out slurred. When had that happened? "It's just stress. The hearing—"
"Is tomorrow and you'll be useless if you're dead." She was already moving, grabbing my arm. "Come on. Healing wing. Now."
"I don't need—"
"Now, Ravenna."
She half-dragged me through the castle. People stared. Let them. I couldn't focus enough to care. The world was tilting again. Spinning. My arm was on fire.
Lysander took one look at me and his face went pale.
That was bad. Lysander didn't pale easily.
"Get her on the bed," he ordered. His voice was sharp. Professional. Scared.
Morgana helped me lie down. The world spun even lying still. I closed my eyes but that made it worse.
Lysander unwrapped my bandages carefully. I heard his sharp intake of breath.
"What?" Morgana demanded. "What is it?"
"The wound isn't healing." Lysander's voice was grim. "It's spreading. Look—the edges are blackening. The infection is moving deeper."
"That's impossible. You cleaned it. Used water magic—"
"Dragon injuries that transfer to human form sometimes continue to degrade if the dragon half isn't fully healed." Lysander was moving now, gathering supplies. "Solace is still wounded. Still weak. Her damaged wing is affecting Ravenna's arm. The two are connected. As long as Solace suffers, so will Ravenna."
"Then heal Solace," Morgana said.
"Dragon wing wounds are notoriously difficult to heal. Especially on hybrid dragons. The membrane is too delicate. Too complex." He started cleaning my arm. It burned. I bit back a scream. "I'll do what I can. But if I can't heal Solace properly..."
"Then what?" Morgana's voice was sharp with fear.
Lysander didn't answer. He didn't have to.
If Solace didn't heal, neither would I. And eventually, the infection would spread too far. Reach something vital.
I would die from a wound that happened six days ago.
The fever climbed. I drifted in and out of consciousness. Heard voices but couldn't make out words. Felt hands on my arm—healing, cleaning, trying to stop the spread.
It wasn't working. I could feel it. The infection spreading like roots through my body. Claiming more territory with each heartbeat.
Someone was shouting. Morgana maybe. Or Father. Hard to tell through the roar in my ears.
Then a different voice. Rough and desperate and familiar.
"Ravenna."
I forced my eyes open. Everything was blurry. But I knew that voice. Would know it anywhere.
Theron.
He was beside the bed, his hand gripping mine, his amber eyes wide with fear.
"Hey," I tried to say. It came out as a whisper. "You're here."
"I'm here." His voice cracked. "I'm not leaving. What happened? What's wrong?"
"The wound," Lysander said somewhere to my left. "From Solace's wing. It's not healing because Solace isn't healing. The infection is spreading."
"Fix it." Theron's voice was sharp. Commanding. "Fix her."
"I'm trying. But dragon wing injuries—"
"Then try harder."
Lysander didn't respond to that. Just kept working. Kept trying to save what was already slipping away.
Theron's hand tightened on mine. "Stay with me," he said. "Ravenna, please. Stay with me. We have the hearing tomorrow. You need to be there. I need you to be there."
"I'm trying," I whispered. The fever was pulling me under. Making it hard to think. Hard to speak. "Theron—"
"Don't." His voice was fierce. Broken. "Don't you dare say goodbye. Don't you dare."
"Not... not goodbye," I managed. "Just... if something happens—"
"Nothing is going to happen. You're going to be fine. We're going to face the hearing together, remember? Together."
Together. That word again. The promise I'd made him.
I wanted to keep it. Wanted to be there with him tomorrow. Wanted to stand beside him and prove that what he did was justified.
But the darkness was pulling at me. Fever and infection and exhaustion all dragging me down.
"Princess." Father's voice. Close. Concerned. "Can you hear me?"
I tried to nod. Couldn't tell if I succeeded.
"Get Aldric," Lysander said. His voice was grim. "We need to move her. If I can't heal the human form, I need to treat Solace directly. The dragon must be healed or we'll lose both."
Both. Dragon and human. Solace and Ravenna. Dying together because we were one being split between two forms.
"No." Theron's voice was steel. "You're not losing either of them. Do whatever you need to do. But save her."
"I'll try." Lysander sounded doubtful. Tired. "But you need to understand—hybrid dragons heal differently. Their wings are more delicate. If the damage is too severe..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
Theron's hand never left mine. Even as they prepared to move me. Even as the fever climbed higher and consciousness slipped further away.
"I'm here," he kept saying. "I'm here. I'm not leaving. You're not doing this alone."
The last thing I remembered before darkness claimed me completely was his voice.
And the desperate hope that I'd wake up to hear it again.