“Stay with me.” The words hung in the air, sticky as heated honey, a bizarre counterpoint to the sickly-sweet scent of Roshan’s draught. Qadir’s grip on my upper arms was firm, his gaze, though clouded by the drug, still pinning me in place. The blood-pact, usually an ember beneath the ribs, surged into a frantic, scalded pulse against my sternum. This wasn’t a strategem. This wasn’t a tactical bluff. This was… desperation. A desperate, raw unraveling of a man who ruled half a continent, now reduced to a fevered plea against a door. My practiced cynicism developed a hairline fracture. Not for the contract, not for the memories, but for the bewildered, terrifyingly vulnerable man before me. The thought, unbidden and unwelcome, arrived like a rogue sandstorm: I wanted to save him. “Sun-Lord, I think you’ve had a bit too much ‘sun-juice’,” I said, my voice deliberately flat, aiming for detached amusement. Sarcasm, my oldest, most reliable shield. “Perhaps we should discuss abdication plans when you can tell the difference between a mercenary and a particularly appealing stack of parchment.” Qadir blinked slowly, the corner of his mouth curving in a soft, utterly uncharacteristic smile. “Parchment does not possess eyes like yours, Tzar. It does not ignite a fire in my veins.” His thumb, rough with calluses from a sword-hilt, traced my jawbone with unsettling delicacy. My ribs rattled against the surge beneath. He stood near enough that I caught the clean cedar trace of his skin under the reek of Roshan's brew. The contact was purely accidental in his drugged state, yet it sparked a peculiar sense of both dread and longing within me. “And I’m quite certain paper doesn’t coax you into babbling about giving up your empire,” I retorted, my tone tighter than I liked. My own fingers twitched, an impulse to cover his hand with mine, to ground him, to… what? Confess? Tell him everything? The words were a bitter dust in my mouth, almost ready to spill. His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering for a moment, before flickering back up to my eyes. “Nonsense?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Or truth that I have fought, bled, and conquered to avoid?” His thumb slid from my jaw to scrape my lower lip, an unhurried touch that stopped air in my throat. The blood-pact seared, an abrupt flare of agony tearing through my ribs, hotter than any forge. The pain was a warning. A proximity alarm. Not just to the Sun-Lord’s fevered affections, but to something far more immediate and lethal. My gaze snapped past Qadir's neck to the iron latticework of the high skylight. A dark, impossibly lean figure was dropping through the opening, a silent shadow unfurling from the gloom, its trajectory aimed directly at Qadir’s exposed back. A glint of polished metal in its hand. “Down!” I roared, shoving Qadir with every ounce of strength I possessed. He stumbled forward, disoriented, as I lunged, spinning to interpose myself between him and the descending assailant. The world narrowed to a blur of motion, the whir of air, and the sickeningly swift arc of a blade. A white-hot spike tore through my left collarbone, burning deeper than surface flesh. The blade had bitten deep. The assassin, cloaked in black, landed lightly, a blur of motion. It was a woman, her face masked by dark fabric, her eyes glinting with cold, practiced efficiency. She tried to withdraw the poisoned dagger, but I gripped her wrist, my teeth gritted against the agony, refusing to let her have her weapon back. The blood-pact flared violently, a furious, pulsing light visible even through my tunic, scorching my skin from the inside out. My vision swam, the edges of the room darkening. This was not just a simple poison. It was fast-acting, designed to fell its target quickly. Qadir, shaken from his stupor by the ambush, roared with absolute venom. He moved with a speed that belied his recent delirium, a blur of golden robes and iron-hard muscle. He didn’t draw a weapon; he became one. A bone-jarring punch sent the assassin sprawling back, her head striking the heavy door with a sickening thud. She crumpled, unconscious, the dagger still wedged in my flesh. My knees buckled. Dizziness pitched the room sideways. Qadir was instantly at my side, his hands tearing at my clothing, his face a mask of furious concern. “Tzar! The blade, it’s…poison!” His voice was sharp, clear, his delirium seemingly burned away by the shock and adrenaline. He ripped the linen of my tunic, the cloth splitting in the quiet room to expose the wound. My blood, dark and sluggish, welled around the embedded hilt. The blood-pact pulsed beneath my skin, a frantic, angry star against my pallid flesh. Qadir’s fingers, surprisingly gentle despite their urgency, brushed against the tight linen bindings that crisscrossed my chest. His eyes, now entirely lucid and razor-sharp, fixed on the unnatural swell beneath the fabric, then went completely rigid in dawning comprehension. He froze.

Fever Dreams and Flying Daggers