When I returned from the hunt, I barely made it to the bed in Duracal's house before my strength vanished.
The weight came all at once. My limbs turned heavy, my breath shallow. The moment I lay down, consciousness slipped away.
I didn't wake the next morning.
Duracal knew something was wrong when I didn't respond. The instant his hand touched my shoulder, he recoiled. My body was burning—far hotter than any normal fever. My face was pale, lips drained of color, strength completely gone.
When he tried to wake me, blood spilled from my mouth.
My vision fractured. I couldn't think clearly. It felt like my body had been thrown into molten iron—every part of me screaming while my mind hovered at the edge of collapse. I couldn't even open my eyes fully.
Duracal rushed for a healer.
Healing magic washed over me again and again. Nothing changed. Blood continued to spill. My breathing remained shallow, uneven.
"This isn't an illness," the healer said slowly, fear creeping into his voice. "And it's not a wound."
He hesitated before continuing.
"It feels like… something foreign has entered his body. Something that doesn't belong. It's reacting—trying to adapt, trying to settle—but his body is rejecting it."
Duracal went silent.
I lay there, half-aware, catching fragments of their conversation. Even Duracal, who rarely showed emotion, looked unsettled.
Foreign.
The word echoed.
As my thoughts struggled to align, understanding surfaced.
Yesterday—
The miasma from the western region.
It had been darker. Denser. Different.
I had absorbed it thinking my resistance was enough. But this wasn't ordinary miasma. It wasn't just energy.
It was something else.
Something that had entered me and was now tearing my body apart as it tried to coexist.
That was why healing magic failed. You couldn't heal what didn't belong.
The solution was obvious.
Expel it.
But releasing that much dense miasma into the open air would poison Duracal, the nearby shops, and anyone else close enough to breathe.
My thoughts slowed.
Then steadied.
From the bed, I could see the desk.
And on it—
The egg.
Black. Still. Silent.
Not beside me. Not touching me. But directly in my line of sight.
If my body couldn't endure the foreign presence… then something else had to receive it.
Using what little strength remained, I forced myself off the bed. My muscles screamed. Every movement felt like tearing flesh from bone. Inch by inch, I dragged myself to the desk.
My hands trembled as I lifted the egg.
"I'm sorry," I whispered hoarsely. "I just… want to live."
I didn't hold anything back.
I poured everything into it—the dark aura, the foreign miasma, every trace of that presence burning through my body. I left nothing behind.
As consciousness slipped away, broken images drifted through my mind.
Plains. Roads. Long journeys.
Not a beast of war.
But a creature that could endure hardship.
A horse-like form—strong enough to carry me forward, no matter how far the road stretched.
I collapsed, the egg slipping from my grasp as darkness took me.
Duracal found me moments later.
My body was cold. My face nearly colorless. Without hesitation, he forced the last healing potion I owned down my throat.
Slowly, painfully, my breathing stabilized.
The healer was summoned again.
This time, the magic worked.
I woke at night.
Every part of my body ached, but the burning was gone. I was alive.
The egg rested on the desk once more.
Uncracked. Silent.
Duracal entered the room, arms crossed.
"It seems you and death walk the same road," he said quietly.
I laughed weakly.
He helped me sit up and handed me a bowl of thin porridge. As I ate, the lesson settled deep—I couldn't treat unknown forces lightly. Survival required patience, not recklessness.
And guilt followed.
Guilt for forcing the egg to bear what my body could not.
That night, I slept again.
When morning came, pain still lingered—but it was manageable.
Then—
The egg trembled.
Just once.
My heart tightened—not with excitement alone, but unease.
Whatever was inside had accepted what I gave it.