"You're really bad at taking care of yourself, aren't you?"
The little bit of life I'd managed to bring back to the forest is already dwindling, but the spirit—Grimoire, I'm pretty sure—is floating in the air when I open my eyes, lying on their side with their head propped on their hand.
"Excuse me?" What a welcome.
"Not eating. Don't even notice you have a fever. Wild magic inside of you." They shake their head. "You'll implode at this rate."
A fever? My forehead feels cool to touch. "I don't have a fever."
"Your hand is as hot as your—never mind. Not my problem if humans want to kill themselves." They roll over, presenting their back to me.
"What do you mean by wild magic? And why would I implode?"
The spirit waves their hand dismissively, not even bothering to look at me. Their indifference is frustrating.
Last time, they spoke with me after I connected with the magic hidden here.
