The doors to the Great Hall creaked loudly as they slowly opened. Zarius felt the vibration of the oak in his very bones, but his primary focus wasn't on the hundreds of bearded, battle-hardened men waiting inside. It was on the heat radiating from Cherion's palm, which was still crushed firmly against his own.
"Are you alright?" Zarius murmured under his breath, his thumb shifting slightly against Cherion's hand. "You're burning. Are you unwell?"
"I'm fine," Cherion said quickly, not even looking at him. His grip didn't loosen. "Just tired. Don't make it a thing."
Zarius frowned. "You don't feel…"
"I said I'm fine," Cherion cut in, forcing a small smile. "Focus on the party, Your Grace. They're waiting."
