She had been here before. The realization struck Virelay with the sharp chill of the Gloaming’s encroaching mist, entirely unlike the slow deduction she typically relied on. The obsidian codex seemed to thrum with a dark energy under her gaze. Fennic, observing her rigid posture, stepped closer. “Virelay? Is something amiss?” His voice was a low murmur, a stark contrast to the boisterous heir from moments ago. He pointed to the codex. “That’s the oldest repository. The Murmur-Bound Codex, they call it. My ancestors claimed it contained prophecies of their doom, hidden in riddles.” Virelay ignored him, her fingers tracing the etched lines of the blood-lock. Her own blood. How? When? The stone vault, habitually a sanctuary of logical order, now felt like a crypt of forgotten truths. The spectral hound had rattled her more than she cared to admit, and the dust-choked air of the subterranean room clung to her throat. Her hands shook, drained by an unfamiliar exhaustion that seeped straight into her bones. “We must leave,” she stated, her voice tighter than she intended. “The air here is… stagnant. Unhealthy.” Fennic frowned, his gaze sharpening. He picked up on her subtle distress with an unnerving accuracy. “You’re pale, Virelay. The hound… its residue can be noxious, even if you weren’t directly bitten. Mist-fever creeps in, insidiously.” He was right. By the time they climbed back toward the living quarters, the vibrant colours of the Grand Rotunda wavered at the perimeter of her vision. The hum of the stasis-relic still resonated in her ears, a phantom echo. She dismissed Fennic’s insistence on summoning a physician, clinging to the rationalization that a moment of rest would suffice. But as the hours passed, the cold that had begun in the archives blossomed into a consuming heat. Her skin felt too tight, her head pounded with a dull, insistent rhythm, and the air itself seemed to vibrate with a low, disquieting frequency. The familiar, comforting precision of her thoughts began to fray, replaced by a hazy disorientation. She lay in her allocated chambers within the Vallow Estate, the ornate canopy of the bed seeming to press down on her. The heavy velvet draperies blocked out the perpetual twilight outside, plunging the room into deep shadow. A soft knock at the door broke through the dull throb in her temples. “Virelay? It’s Marlis.” Relief, sharp and unexpected, cut through the fever’s haze. Marlis, her best friend, a steadfast anchor in the swirling currents of Ghalant’s elite. Virelay managed a raspy, “Enter.” Marlis swept in, her silver-spun hair uncharacteristically dishevelled, her features taut with worry. She carried a small, stoppered vial of what Virelay knew to be potent feverfew elixir. She knelt by the bed, her hand cool against Virelay’s burning forehead. “Mist-fever,” Marlis murmured, her gaze sharp and assessing. “That hound. I knew it. Fennic told me what happened. You froze it? Incredible. But the residue…” She pressed the cool vial into Virelay’s hand. “Drink this. It will break the fever, at least for a while.” Virelay swallowed the bitter liquid, feeling its immediate, if temporary, chill spread through her throat. “I accessed the deepest records, Marlis,” she said, her voice thin. “There is a codex. Locked with my blood. My blood, Marlis. I have stood before it once before.” Marlis froze. The small, worried lines on her face deepened, contorting into an expression Virelay had never seen – a flash of pure, unadulterated terror. Her hands clenched, knuckles white. “That sealed codex?” she repeated, her voice hushed, ragged with an agitation wholly alien to her. “Are you certain? That particular one?” “It glowed crimson, just like the panel in the entrance, Marlis. My unique signature. It’s undeniable.” Virelay watched her friend, a strange knot forming in her stomach. Marlis’s reaction was not one of surprise, but of a deep, unsettling dread. It was the fear of a secret discovered. Before Marlis could formulate a reply, another knock echoed, firmer this time. A Vallow house servant, a gaunt woman named Kaelia, announced, “Lord Fennic, for Miss Hesk.” Marlis shot a panicked look at Virelay, her stare carrying an unmistakable warning. She smoothed her expression, but the tremor in her hands was still visible as Fennic entered. He stood framed in the doorway, not in fine cut silks, but in an unadorned dark tunic, dark curls falling across his brow. His gaze, devoid of its customary mockery, fixed solely on Virelay. “Marlis,” he acknowledged with a curt nod, his gaze sweeping over Virelay. “You should rest. Kaelia, please prepare a chamber for Lady Penhal.” It was a dismissal, polite but firm. Marlis hesitated, then rose, her movements stiff. She gave Virelay one last, searching look before exiting, the door closing with a soft click. Fennic approached the bed, carrying a steaming bowl that smelled faintly of herbs and something richer, like slow-cooked fowl. He pulled up a delicate, gilded chair and sat, placing the bowl on the bedside table. “Mist-fever requires specific care,” he stated, his voice low, devoid of any pretense. “This is a restorative broth, brewed with Eldrinian night-root and local shadow-moss. It helps to purify the humours.” Virelay, weakened by the fever, could only watch as he carefully ladled a spoonful of the thick, fragrant soup. He held it to her lips. She tried to take the spoon, but her hand trembled, sloshing the liquid. Fennic’s fingers, surprisingly gentle, closed over hers, steadying her. “Allow me,” he said, his eyes holding hers. There was no trace of the scandalous playboy, only an unyielding focus, a quiet devotion that made the heat in her cheeks intensify, separate from the fever. He fed her slowly, patiently, occasionally wiping a stray drop from the corner of her mouth with a soft cloth. The broth was warm and nourishing, easing the ache in her throat and the tremor in her limbs. As he leaned in to offer another spoonful, his hand reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair from her forehead. His touch was feather-light, prickling across her sensitized skin. His thumb lingered for a moment, tracing the line of her temple. “You always did prefer the Veridian Tea, didn’t you?” he mused, his voice a quiet rumble, his eyes still holding hers. “The one with the hint of dried lunasage. It’s remarkably difficult to source in Ghalant, but I had Kaelia prepare a small pot. It’s cooling now, by the window.” Virelay froze. She had mentioned her preference for that specific, obscure blend only once, months ago, during a brief, perfunctory conversation at a charity auction she had attended purely for networking, a conversation she had barely remembered herself. It was a detail so insignificant, so fleeting, that no one, especially not Fennic Vallow, the man renowned for his utter lack of attention to anything beyond his own immediate gratification, should have recalled it. Her heart, already erratic from the fever, began to pound a frantic, disorienting rhythm. She rationalized it away instantly. It was the fever. The heat, the disorientation, the weakness. It was twisting mundane details into something significant, something charged. His focus, his quiet care – it was merely an act of chivalry, a performance for her benefit, perhaps for his own amusement. She refused to trust the sudden, unwelcome warmth blooming in her chest, blaming it on the restorative soup, the fever breaking, anything but the unnerving truth of his observation. She finished the soup, feeling a resurgence of strength. The fever was indeed receding, leaving her mind clearer, though still fragile. “The codex,” she managed, pushing herself up slightly. “I need to open it.” Fennic hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He retrieved the obsidian-bound volume from a satchel he’d brought in, placing it carefully on her lap. Her fingers, still trembling slightly, traced the intricate, interlocking locks. The first, crimson one, glowed with her blood signature. She pressed her fingertip to it. It clicked, silently receding. The next lock, a deep sapphire, shimmered. Another press, another click. One by one, under Fennic’s watchful, unreadable gaze, Virelay opened the series of locks, each one responding to a specific, unique blood signature. She recognised none of them, yet the locks yielded to her touch as if she were merely completing a pre-arranged sequence. Finally, the last lock gave way with a soft, final sigh. The heavy cover of the bound volume swung open. Its pages, parchment thick and aged, were covered in elegant, precise script. Her own handwriting. She leaned closer, her eyes scanning the first entry, her heart now pounding not from fever, but from a cold, dreadful certainty. The words blurred, then sharpened into terrifying clarity: *If you are reading this, Fennic Vallow will be murdered on the Eclipse, and you are the one who will kill him.*

Mist-Fever and Memories