"The water in the bathing pool. It's fresh and clean, and they can't dilute fever white in just water, which is why there isn't any. They need something to hide the taste, plus the amount of water needed to fill the bath? They wouldn't even attempt it." Nero paced the chamber, his mind racing. "We need to find a way out of here. There must be a servant's entrance, a hidden passage—palaces always have escape routes."
"I've looked," Casteel said wearily. "During my first week here, I found a route, but it was sealed after I was caught. The only other door leads to the bathing chamber as you've seen, and it's windowless."
Nero examined the walls, tapping experimentally, listening for hollow spaces. "What about the floor? Cellars, crypts, anything below?"
Casteel shook his head. "Solid stone. I tried prying up the tiles near the corner."
Frustration mounted in Nero's chest, a trapped animal sensation he hadn't felt since the rebellion's darkest days. The back of his neck pulsed with heat, as if in warning. “Where are they getting the coin for this?” Nero said. "Even the merchants have barely anything to trade and yet the food and the drink we've been given had to have come from somewhere.”
“I don’t know, but I think the priests have their own money. They must have.”
It made sense, Nero thought. People still thought divinity could be bought. He looked at Casteel and noted the pain lines around his mouth, and the droop of his shoulders. “Why don’t you rest for a bell while I think?”
Casteel hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Wake me if you find anything." He moved to the bed, settling atop the coversrather than beneath them, as if unwilling to fully commit to rest in this strange place. Within moments, his breathing deepened, exhaustion claiming him despite the tension that still lined his face.
Nero resumed his methodical examination of the chamber, searching for any weakness, any oversight in their gilded prison. The stonework was seamless, the windows too small for escape. Every possible exit had been considered and secured.
He paused at the edge of the bathing pool, staring at his reflection in the still water. The man who looked back at him seemed a stranger—hardened features, wary eyes, the shadow of a life spent fighting and surviving. How had he ended up here, trapped in some ancient prophecy with a royal bastard?
As the moments passed, Nero's frustration mounted. The chamber was as secure as any prison he'd encountered during the rebellion. He glanced occasionally at Casteel's sleeping form, noting how young he looked in sleep, the tension momentarily erased from his features.
Nero was in the bathing chamber investigating the air vents when he heard a soft cry from the other room and hurried back in.
Casteel's face had flushed an alarming shade of red, and his breathing had grown labored, chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow movements. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampening the dark hair that curled against his skin.
"Casteel?" Nero approached cautiously, then with increasing alarm. Heat radiated from the younger man's body, visible even before Nero laid a hand on his forehead. The skin beneath his palm burned with unnatural fever.
"Seven hells," Nero muttered, trying to rouse him. "Casteel! Wake up!"
The young man's eyes fluttered open, glazed and unfocused. "Hot," he managed to rasp, his voice barely audible. But thenCasteel reached a shaky hand toward him, and he gripped it tight.
“Casteel,” he began. He needed to shift into his wolf. Didn’t that heal injuries? He needed a healer and turned to the doors. He pounded on the wood, shouting for a healer, the guards, the priests, anyone who might hear.
The sound of boots against stone answered his call, and the doors swung open to reveal two startled guards.
"What's happening?" one demanded, hand on his sword hilt.
"He needs a healer—now," Nero ordered, voice cracking like a whip. "He's burning with fever."
The guards exchanged a glance, one hesitating while the other nodded sharply. "I'll fetch Makim," he said, turning to run down the corridor.
The remaining guard stepped into the chamber, eyes widening at Casteel's condition. "How long has he been like this?"
"It came on suddenly," Nero said, returning to Casteel's side. The young man's skin had taken on an alarming pallor beneath the flush, his breathing growing more labored with each passing moment. "He was fine, then he fell asleep, and now—"
Casteel's body arched suddenly, a strangled cry escaping his lips. His eyes flew open, but they weren't human anymore—wolf eyes, wild yet still blue, stared back at Nero with unfocused panic.
The door burst open again, and an elderly man rushed in, robes fluttering behind him. Unlike the other priests, his garments were simpler, the white fabric stained with herbs and tinctures. His gray hair was pulled back in a practical knot, and his weathered face showed genuine concern rather than religious fervor.
"Move aside," he commanded, and Nero found himself obeying without question. The healer laid practiced hands on Casteel's forehead, chest, and abdomen, his expression growingdarker with each touch. He pressed fingers against Casteel's wrist, counting silently, then lifted one eyelid to examine the eye beneath.
"How long since the first touch?" Makim asked sharply.
"First touch of what?" Nero asked, confusion mixing with mounting dread. "What's happening to him?"
“Your first interaction,” he snapped out and Nero tried to think.
“Three bells at most. What has that—”
