The carriage should have been prepared since morning.
Demian stood at the threshold of the sitting room, his coat already on his shoulders, his sword hanging neatly at his side a long-held habit whenever he was about to return to the castle. His expression was cold, his mind already halfway home, leaving this place behind.
But before he could take a single step, a soft voice called from behind the sofa.
"Demian…"
He stopped.
Ivanka lay there, her pale face looking far too perfect to be coincidence. Her hair spilled across the pillow, her lips trembling slightly, her breathing deliberately shallow as though every breath required effort.
"My head… it hurts," she murmured. "My body feels cold."
Demian turned slowly. Something in his chest tightened not from concern, but from a stranger sensation: exhaustion.
"Are you ill?" he asked flatly.
