The fever didn't stop. It stayed under my skin, making every movement slow and painful. My arms were stiff. My back hurt constantly. Even blinking made my head throb. Breathing felt sharp, like air scraped through a sore throat. The room smelled like sweat, blood, and something rotten.
My room was quiet.
Too quiet.
The only sounds were the faint crackle of oil in the wall lamp and the soft, persistent buzz of a fly circling near my shoulder. It landed on the edge of the bandage—right on the soaked, darkened cloth—and stayed there, twitching its legs as if inspecting the rot. A thick drop of blood slid down my arm and hit the floor with a dull splat. The stone drank it instantly, the tainted red vanishing into the cracks like it had always belonged there.
I was decaying, slowly, and everyone could see it.
That's what I had become.
My arm throbbed, but my shoulder was worse—burning with a heat so sharp it felt cruel. The bandage stretched from my clavicle, across the upper chest, and down to my elbow, already soaked through. Beneath it, the blood had darkened to a sickly hue. And under that, I could feel it: the Wendigo's toxin, still alive, still moving. It crawled beneath my skin like something with intent. Veins I hadn't known were there pulsed with unnatural warmth. They weren't veins anymore. They were roots—twisted, violet, blooming outward.
I stared at the ceiling.
Blank.
Cracked.
Like my thoughts.
"They really want me dead this badly?"
I laughed, a raw, bitter thing that scraped my throat. No one answered. Of course not. The gods didn't speak to mistakes.
"Can't they leave me alone? What do they have against me?"
The room didn't reply. Just the flicker of the lamp, the soft crackle of cloth soaked in blood, and the distant sound of guards changing posts.
I thought back to what Mother told me that morning. The herb we needed was gone, and the place it grew was too far. No Chosen could reach it in time. She'd spoken gently, trying not to upset me, but I heard the fear behind her calm words.
So many coincidences.
Too many.
I closed my eyes. Could it be the gods? Could it be my uncle? Or maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it was all of them.
Or none.
"Honestly... I'm tired."
The door opened. No knock. Just the sound of boots, polished and precise.
Lugalbanda.
He looked just like always—all order, no warmth. Shoulders squared, back straight, stiff as ever. His eyes moved across the room, sharp and distant.
For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at me. Or rather, at the bandage. At the way it bulged. At the slow stain creeping across it. I saw it in his eyes. Not pity. Not concern.
Judgment.
"You were wounded by your own weakness" he said.
That was his greeting.
I didn't answer. Didn't trust my voice not to betray the heat in my chest.
"There is no place for weakness in a king" he continued, his words measured like scripture.
"A sovereign must endure."
Still, he didn't move closer. Didn't ask how I was. Didn't reach for my hand. His eyes were as distant as the stars, and just as indifferent.
"You have one chance" he said. "Reach the herb. Return on your feet. That's the proof Uruk needs."
He turned to leave. Didn't say goodbye. Didn't even look back.
The door closed.
Silence returned, but it was colder now. It clung to the walls like frost on old stone.
I stared at the ceiling again.
Still cracked.
Still mine.
Is this what a father says to his son? Is this what love looks like, wrapped in royal decree?
Was this what drove Ishtal away?
Was that what broke him?
My eyes dropped to the bandage.
Still bleeding.
Still rotting.
The gods had judged me. And now my own blood had passed sentence.
I didn't hear the door open this time. Just a soft voice.
"Brother..."
I looked.
Ennari.
She stood at the threshold, eyes wide, voice trembling. Small hands clutching the edge of the doorway, knuckles pale from how tightly she held on. Her hair was slightly tangled, her sandals uneven on her feet like she'd run there in a hurry.
I forced a smile.
Sat up slowly.
Pain flared in my shoulder—sharp and immediate.
I buried it.
"Come in" I said, making my voice light. "Don't be scared. I'm just being lazy. Got a bit scratched in a fight. Caught a fever, that's all."
She stepped inside, her small feet silent against the floor. Her eyes flicked between my face and the bandages—searching for the truth hidden in the spaces between my words.
"Are you going to be okay?"
"Of course. Tomorrow, I'm going on a trip. I'll come back healthier than ever. Maybe even stronger."
I flexed my arm.
Winced.
Hid it with a grin.
Ennari laughed—just a little. A quick breath through her nose.
But her eyes didn't.
She crept closer, until she stood right beside the bed. Her gaze dropped to the wound and stayed there. She didn't speak. Just stood in silence, like her words had caught somewhere in her throat and refused to come out.
"You'll really come back?"
I nodded. Reached out with one arm and pulled her into a hug.
Held her close.
Felt her warmth, the soft tremble in her shoulders, the way her breath caught for a second before she leaned into me.
"I promise. We'll play again. Like before. I'll be fine. Now go on. Kisaya's probably waiting."
She didn't move at first. Just stood there, like she was still waiting for something else—maybe a different answer. I reached out and ruffled her hair gently.
"Let me rest a bit" I added, my voice softer now. "I need to be strong for tomorrow, right? Go play with Kisaya for a while. I'll see you later."
She nodded—slowly—and backed away, eyes still fixed on me like she was memorizing my face.
Her steps were soft. Careful.
She reached the door, hand on the frame.
Then, suddenly, she turned and ran back to me.
Threw her arms around my waist.
"If you lie, I'll be mad forever."
I wrapped my good arm around her. Held her close one last time.
"Then I guess I don't have a choice, do I?"
She pulled back, wiping her eyes quickly like she didn't want me to see. Then she turned and left.
The door closed behind her.
Silence.
But this time, it didn't feel empty.
I thought of Ninsun's eyes.
Of Kisaya's fire.
Of Ennari's touch.
And something shifted.
It no longer mattered what the gods wanted. Or what my father demanded.
I would survive.
Not because of them.
But in spite of them.
I stared at the ceiling one last time.
Still cracked.
Still mine.
"I'll do whatever it takes."
My voice was quiet.
"Whatever it takes to be healed."