"His Highness the Duke didn't leave that chair. He didn't eat or sleep properly. He just... held your hand and poured his magic into you, keeping the fever at bay. And we... the Vanguard... we could do nothing but stand outside this door and listen to him slowly lose his mind."
Seraphina stared at the knight, her adult brain rapidly calculating the catastrophic nightmare she had just caused.
Three days...
The Reaper of the North, the man holding the fragile political stability of an entire Empire together, had completely abandoned his duties, his health, and his sanity to sit in a chair for seventy-two hours because a six-year-old orphan had a magical panic attack.
The Vanguard had been stalled.
The journey to the Capital was delayed.
The Marquess's estate had likely been turned into a hostile, terrifying hostage situation by a sleep-deprived, murderous Archduke.
A suffocating wave of guilt crashed over Seraphina.
She was supposed to be useful.
