"You said he'd wake up soon, but it's been three days."
He remained standing by the bedpost. Outside, the northern night was pitch black, but inside, the soft glow from the firelight only made the quiet shape on the bed stand out more.
Cherion hadn't moved. Not a finger.
His eyes were still closed, sealed shut as if by some invisible wax. It had been seventy-two hours since the forest and the terrifying sight of black, poisoned blood.
He'd been careless. Gods, he'd been so damn arrogant.
He was the Shield of the North, built to withstand toxins, trained to survive venom, hardened against assassination. He was used to potions, to toxins, to the slow, burning crawl of venom in his veins. A "scratch" from a traitor like Soren should have been an inconvenience, a temporary sting. He could have survived it. He would have survived it.
But Cherion hadn't known that.
