Vivian did not sleep.
The room was too heavy, too sharp with the scent of sweat and blood. She sat by Macon's bedside, elbows on her knees, hands pressed against her trembling face. The lamp burned low, its weak glow painting shadows across the walls, and every shadow seemed alive, stretching, curling like claws that reached for her brother.
He had woken only once.
Just for a heartbeat, his eyes had opened, wild and burning with something she didn't recognize. He had whispered words that weren't his own—words that chilled her blood—and then the strength bled out of him. His body shook violently before collapsing back into fevered unconsciousness.
That was hours ago.
Now he lay still, caught between shallow breaths and silence, as though each inhale was a war he might lose. At times, he went frighteningly still, and she would lean close, pressing her ear against his chest just to hear the faintest sound of life.
His skin was clammy and cold, yet beneath the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs, the scar burned like embers. Even through the cloth, the faint red glow pulsed with the rhythm of his heart.
It was wrong.
It was all wrong.
Vivian's hands—stained with his blood—still wouldn't stop shaking. She had pressed rags to his chest until they were soaked, tied bandages with trembling fingers, whispering prayers she barely remembered. But nothing stopped the glow. Nothing stopped the way the scar seemed to breathe on its own.
Her throat tightened. She pressed her palms together, forcing the words through cracked lips.
"God, please… don't take him. Not like this. Please."
Her voice broke on the last word.
But the prayer felt hollow, like a fragile shell against something vast and unyielding.
Because what she had seen when he woke was not natural.
For that moment, Macon had not been Macon. His eyes had burned with the reflection of armor where his shirt should have been. Smoke and iron filled the air though nothing burned. And voices—hundreds of them—rose in her head, chanting a name she did not understand.
General.
And in that instant, the man writhing on the bed had not been her brother.
He had been a stranger.
A warlord.
A nightmare made flesh.
Vivian's stomach turned. Her nails dug into her palms.
What if he's cursed? What if something inside him isn't Macon anymore?
The thought slithered through her like poison.
She rose suddenly, pacing the small room. Her bare feet whispered against the tiles, her arms wrapping around herself as if to contain the storm inside.
"No, no…" Her voice cracked as she shook her head violently. "He's still Macon. He's still my brother. He's still—"
Her throat closed, choking the words.
The lamp flickered.
Vivian froze. Her pulse spiked, eyes snapping toward the table where the flame wavered unnaturally. For a heartbeat, she swore she heard a hum—low, vibrating, like steel trembling against stone. It slithered through the air, faint but chilling, and she felt it rattle inside her chest.
She spun around, heart hammering. The room was empty. Silent.
Only Macon lay on the cot, his body pale and trembling, his jaw clenched even in sleep as though he fought an invisible battle.
Vivian pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to steady her breathing. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But she couldn't—not when he needed her.
She forced her knees to bend, sinking beside the bed once more. Her tears blurred the world as she reached for his hand.
Hot.
His palm burned against her skin as if he had fire beneath his flesh. Yet the rest of him was ice, damp with sweat. The contrast sent a shiver up her arm.
It wasn't just wrong. It was inhuman.
For the first time, the whisper she had been fighting slipped fully into her mind:
What if Macon isn't Macon anymore?
Her heart clenched violently. She bit her lip hard enough to taste iron, refusing to let the thought take root.
No. Don't think it. Don't you dare.
This was her brother. The one who used to chase her through fields when they were children, who patched her knees when she scraped them, who made her laugh even on the darkest nights. This was Macon—the only family she had left in this cruel world.
He couldn't be anything else.
"Stay with me, Macon," she whispered, her forehead pressed against his arm. Her voice broke into a sob. "Please. Don't leave me alone in this world. I can't lose you too."
Her body shook with the force of her fear, tears dripping onto the sheets.
But the scar beneath the bandages pulsed again, harder this time, and she swore she saw a faint crack of light seep through the wrappings. The hum grew louder, faintly echoing in the room, though no blade was near.
Vivian flinched, clutching his arm tighter.
Then—Macon stirred.
His lips parted, dry and pale, words slipping through like smoke. She leaned close, straining to catch them.
"...Merciless… Dawn…"
Her blood turned cold.
Vivian recoiled, staring at his face, at the way his brow furrowed as though he was still fighting some unseen war in his dreams. The name—she didn't know what it meant, but it felt heavy, dangerous. And the way he spoke it, as if it belonged to him, made her heart ache with dread.
She pressed her hands over her ears, shaking her head as if she could shake the sound away.
"No, no… you're not that. You're Macon. You're my brother!"
But deep down, a voice whispered cruelly: What if he is both?
Vivian collapsed forward, curling against the edge of the bed, torn between clinging to him and pushing him away. Every part of her screamed that he was slipping further and further from her grasp.
And the worst part was—she didn't know how to pull him back.
The night stretched endlessly, each second marked by the pulse of that unnatural glow. Vivian stayed there, her prayers falling into silence, her heart breaking with every shallow breath he took.
Because fear had already planted its seed.
And though she loved her brother more than anything i
n this world—
she could no longer silence the question gnawing at her soul:
What if Macon isn't Macon anymore?