The broken word jolted through her like lightning.

Mira's head snapped toward the sofa. Toby had stirred, his eyes half-open and glazed with fever. His lips trembled as he tried to wet them, catching no moisture.

"Toby!" She dropped her bundle, the cloth-wrapped wooden piece thudding softly against the floorboards, forgotten. She rushed to his side, kneeling beside the sofa so fast her knees protested the impact.

Her hands hovered over him, afraid to touch and somehow make it worse. "I'm here, baby. I'm right here."

"It... hurts..."

Toby's voice cracked, barely audible. His small hand lifted and reached blindly for her.

Mira grabbed it instantly, pressing it between both of hers like she could pour strength into his bones through touch alone. "I know. I know it hurts, sweetheart. But the lord is going to help you. He's getting medicine right now."

"Mother... are we..." Toby's eyes struggled to focus, lashes heavy and sticking together. "...safe?"

The question shattered something inside her.

Tears spilled over before she could stop them. Hot and fast, streaming down her cheeks as she clutched her son's trembling hand.

"Yes." Her voice broke, thin and raw. "Yes, baby. We're safe. We're finally safe."

"Don't cry..." Toby whispered, his fingers weak around hers, but still trying to squeeze.

But she couldn't stop. Couldn't hold back the flood of relief and fear and shame that crashed through her all at once. They were safe. In a nobleman's home. Under his roof. Because she'd been too weak to protect her son on her own.

Because she'd needed rescue like some helpless—

"I told you not to cry, didn't I?"

The voice cut through her spiral like a blade, her ears flinching and perking instantly.

Mira gasped, jerking upright so fast her vision swam. She wiped at her face with the back of one hand, smearing tears and grime across her cheeks.

Viktor stood in the doorway leading to the garden. His arms were full of plants—leafy stems, flowers, and twisted roots she didn't recognize.

Dirt smudged his hands and forearms, streaks of dark soil climbing up pale skin.

How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen?

His eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—locked onto her tear-streaked face.

For a heartbeat, something flickered there—annoyance, worry, exhaustion all tangled together—before he looked away toward Toby.

"My lord, I—" Mira's voice caught. She wiped frantically at her cheeks with the back of one hand, the other still clutching Toby's. "I didn't mean to—"

"Crying doesn't suit you." Viktor stepped fully into the room, moving toward a low table near the sofa.

He set the herbs down with care, arranging them methodically instead of just dumping them. "Wastes energy you need for taking care of him."

His tone wasn't harsh. Just... matter-of-fact, like he was commenting on the weather or the state of the walls.

Somehow that made the words sink deeper.

Mira swallowed hard, trying to force the tears back. Her throat ached with the effort, like she was swallowing stones.

'It doesn't suit me? ' she thought weakly. 'Then what does? Dirt? Desperation? Begging on my knees? ' Yet somewhere under that self-loathing, a tiny ember warmed—he wasn't mocking her.

He was telling her to save her strength.

Viktor glanced at Toby, then at her. "Has he been awake long?"

"Just... just now, my lord. He said it hurts."

"Expected." Viktor's attention shifted fully to the boy. He moved closer, kneeling beside the sofa so he was eye-level with Toby. His knees protested, but he ignored it. "Hey. Can you hear me?"

Toby's unfocused eyes drifted toward Viktor's voice, the faintest hint of recognition there.

"You're going to feel worse before you feel better," Viktor said bluntly. "But you'll live. Understand?"

Such harsh words for a sick child, Mira thought, heart clenching. But Toby's expression shifted—just slightly. Some of the fear faded from his fevered gaze, replaced with a fragile kind of resolve.

"...yes..." The boy's whisper was barely audible, but it was an answer.

"Good." Viktor straightened with a small grunt, his joints complaining. "Your mother's going to stay with you. I'm going to make medicine. Don't give her trouble."

Toby's eyes drifted shut again, his breathing evening out, tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.

Viktor stood, dusting off his hands on his already dirty pants. His gaze flicked to Mira—still kneeling beside the sofa, still holding Toby's hand like a lifeline.

"When Helena comes back with the water, drink some," he said. "You look like you're about to collapse."

"I... yes, my lord." The words slipped out automatically, her body obedient even while her mind lagged behind.

The concern in his tone nudged that small warmth in her chest wider—he wasn't just treating Toby like a patient; he was counting her as part of what needed to be kept standing.

Before she could say anything else, Helena appeared in the doorway carrying a large clay pitcher and two wooden cups.

Her cheeks were pink from the weight and the walk, a few strands of hair sticking to her damp temples.

"I brought water, young master." Helena's eyes darted between them, sensing the tension but not commenting on it.

She took in Mira's red-rimmed eyes, Viktor's dirt-smeared arms, Toby's calmer breathing—all of it painting a picture that made her chest swell with quiet pride.

'...Young master...'

"Add this into the water and feed it to toby." Viktor gestured vaguely at Mira before returning his attention to the herbs spread across the table, using his hand to combine two or more into one, concentrating them and creating the paste out of it instantly as stood to offer the paste to her.

Mira stared at the greenish paste in Viktor's palm—thick, glistening slightly under the dim candlelight. It smelled bitter, sharp enough to make her nose wrinkle.

"This..." She hesitated, eyes flicking between the paste and Viktor's dirt-smudged face. "You made this with your... ability?"

"Obviously." Viktor's tone was flat, impatient. He held his hand steady, waiting. "Mix a finger's worth into the water. Make him drink all of it."

Helena stepped forward quickly, setting the pitcher down on the low table beside the herbs. She poured water into one of the wooden cups, the liquid sloshing slightly as her hands trembled—not from fear, but exhaustion catching up.

Viktor scooped some of the paste with two fingers, dropping it into the cup Helena held out. The paste dissolved slowly, turning the clear water into a murky green-brown that looked about as appetizing as mud.

Mira's stomach churned just looking at it.

"My lord, I—" she started, but Viktor was already moving.

He knelt beside Toby again, his movements deliberate despite the weariness pulling at his shoulders. One hand slid beneath Toby's head, lifting it with surprising gentleness.

The boy stirred, eyelids fluttering but not fully opening.

"Drink." Viktor's voice was firm but not harsh. He brought the cup to Toby's cracked lips with his other hand, tilting it just enough for the liquid to touch his mouth.

Toby's face scrunched immediately, a weak whimper escaping as the bitter taste hit his tongue.

"I know," Viktor muttered, almost to himself. "Tastes like shit. Drink it anyway as you need to hussle, boy."

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