“Zavir! Are you deaf? Get to the courtyard!” Draxis’s voice, sharp and urgent, sliced through the air. “Unless you fancy being flayed alive by the Margrave’s brutes!” Zavir didn't move. Her mind, usually a placid pool, churned with frantic calculations. A direct refusal meant execution. A visible chest, even tightly bound, meant a worse fate. There had to be another way. Her gaze drifted to a forgotten corner of the armory, to a heap of mildewed leather scraps and a bucket of stagnant water. Moments later, Cadet Rhodin recoiled from Zavir, a guttural sound escaping his throat. “By the Black Chasm! What in the name of the Blighted Mire is that stench?” Zavir, now slumped against a stone pillar, a pallid sheen on her face, managed a weak, reedy cough. Her tunic, deliberately mussed and re-dampened, clung to her. Her exposed forearms were streaked with a greenish-brown slime, scraped from the bottom of the stagnant bucket and mixed with a dash of crushed, rotting fungi found near the weapon racks. The concoction gave off an odor akin to death and decay, far worse than any common sweat. Her gaze was flat, glazed over with practiced indifference to mimic profound illness. “Swamp-rot,” she rasped, her voice barely a whisper, a feat of control that belied her true vigor. “Caught it… during pit duty. Thought it was just a fever.” Rhodin gagged, stumbling backward. “Swamp-rot? You putrid fool! That’s highly contagious! It eats the flesh from the bone!” He pointed a trembling finger at the greenish streaks. “Look at that! It’s already weeping!” The slime, mixed with a touch of oil, did indeed appear to ooze. The other cadets in the vicinity swiftly created a wide berth around Zavir, their faces a mix of disgust and fear. Swamp-rot was a death sentence, slow and agonizing, and its contagion was legendary. No one wanted to be near it. Instructor Varon, alerted by the commotion, strode over, his grim expression hardening further. He eyed Zavir with a critical, yet wary, gaze. He sniffed the air, a deep frown creasing his brow. “By the Festering Maw… it truly is swamp-rot. The advanced stage, by the looks of it.” He gestured to two burly medics. “Get this cadet to the infirmary’s quarantine ward! Immediately! And for the love of the Rotting Saints, ensure no one else comes into contact!” As Zavir was half-carried, half-dragged away, she allowed her head to loll, her eyes fluttering shut. She caught a glimpse of Rethan, standing rigid in the courtyard line-up, his gaze fixed on her. A muscle ticked along his cheek. The screening was avoided. She let her breath slip out silently. Two days later, the infirmary reeked of disinfectants and stale fear. Zavir, declared ‘recovering’ but still a potential carrier, was confined to a small, isolated cot. The Margrave’s inspectors still prowled the outer barracks, hunting for any trace of the missing concubine. Rethan stalked into the ward, his boots echoing on the flagstones. His face was set hard as granite, his pupils blown wide and feverish. “You’re coming with me,” he declared, his voice low and clipped. “Doctor’s orders. Fresh air. And… other company.” Zavir merely raised a languid eyebrow. “I prefer the stench of my own dying.” Rethan’s hand shot out, grabbing Zavir’s arm with a grip that threatened to crush bone. “No. You’re coming.” He dragged Zavir, still clad in a loose, infirmary tunic, out into the persistent drizzle. The rain, cold and biting, did little to douse the fire in Rethan’s gaze. He led Zavir not towards the training pits, but towards the Bastion’s outer gates, towards the small, rough-hewn village nestled at its base. The Black Boar tavern was a low-ceilinged den of smoke, cheap ale, and boisterous laughter. The air inside was thick, warm, and reeked of fermenting grains and unwashed bodies. Rethan shoved Zavir into a booth, opposite two women whose laughter was a little too loud, their dresses a little too low-cut for the dreary village. “These are Vrena and Bryna,” Rethan announced, his voice clipped, too loud over the room's noise. “Good company. Drink.” He pushed a frothing tankard into Zavir’s hand. He then slammed another into his own, his gaze darting between Zavir and the women, a frantic, unhinged edge in his stare. He tracked Zavir with an unblinking focus that made the women shift on their benches. Vrena, a woman with a thick braid of flaxen hair, leaned forward, her gaze lingering on Zavir’s slouched frame. “Well, aren’t you a quiet one, Zavir? Commander Rethan talks about you so much.” She reached across the rough wooden table, her fingers brushing Zavir’s arm as she playfully nudged him. “Come on, cadet, loosen up a bit.” It was a light, innocent touch, meant to coax a smile. But Rethan’s head snapped towards her, his eyes blazing. A guttural sound tore from his throat. His hand, still wrapped around his heavy glass mug, spasmed. The thick glass groaned, then shattered, shards digging into his flesh. Dark blood bloomed instantly, mixing with the spilled ale. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem to notice the pain. His gaze, feral and possessive, remained fixed on Vrena, then cut straight to Zavir. Vrena and Bryna shrank back, chairs scraping violently as they scrambled clear of the booth and bolted for the alley exit. The room went dead silent around them. Rethan stood, his chest heaving, his bleeding hand clenched into a fist. “Out,” he snarled, his voice a low growl. “Now.” He hauled Zavir out into the sleet, shoving past silent patrons. The alleyway was slick with mire, dimly lit by a grease-lantern. Rethan swung Zavir around, shoving her back hard against the sodden timber siding. His injured hand, dripping crimson, rose to cup Zavir’s jaw, his fingers digging in. His breath was ragged, hot against Zavir’s face. “What are you doing to me?” he whispered, his voice raw with a pain that had nothing to do with his shattered hand. His dark pupils searched Zavir’s blank stare, hunting for an answer she had no intention of providing. “I can’t… I can’t sleep. I can’t think. It’s you, Zavir. Everything is you.” His face drew closer, the scent of blood and ale heavy between them. His eyes flickered down to Zavir’s lips, a silent battle raging within him. The downpour plastered his black hair flat against his brow, sharpening the predatory hunger across his features. His thumb traced the line of Zavir’s jaw, a feather-light touch, utterly possessive. He leaned in, a desperate, forbidden kiss a breath away, when a sound ripped through the rain-swept night. A massive, concussive *boom* echoed from the direction of Gravefall Bastion. A distant, orange glow flared against the black sky, followed by a shower of sparks. The very ground beneath them shuddered. The blood-wards had been catastrophically breached.

The Jealousy Cure