Chapter 13: The Fevered Tyrant
Gabriel woke the next morning drenched in sweat, his golden eyes glassy and unfocused.
The sharp aches in his limbs made even lifting his hand a trial.
The fever coursing through him turned his usually commanding aura into a shadow of its old self.
"I need a drink!"
He barked out a command for water, but when no one came, he growled weakly and slumped back into the mound of ruined blankets.
In the servants' quarters, panic was causing everyone to cry.
"I'm not going in there," whispered one of the maids, clutching a tray of food. "Did you hear what happened last time someone tried to serve him when he was like this? He threw a chair!"
"Not just the chair," muttered another, "he threw the table too!"
A third servant peeked around the corner, clutching a mop for security.
"We can't leave him like this forever. Someone has to do something, or the fever will get worse."
The small huddle of staff turned their heads, almost as if they'd practiced, toward Lirian, who was lounging by the fireplace, munching on a biscuit.
She looked up at them, crumbs on her lips. "What?"
One of the younger maids stepped forward, her head lowered. "Lady Lirian… you're the only one who can handle him. Please… he's so ill."
"Heh!" Lirian let out a bark of laughter that echoed through the hall. "Handle him? Why should I handle him? Let him die. It would save us all a lot of trouble, wouldn't it?"
She went back to her biscuit.
The servants exchanged glances until, finally, one older maid stepped forward.
Her face was lined with age, but her eyes shone with some fierceness.
Without warning, she slapped Lirian clean across the cheek.
The sound vibrated in the room like thunder.
Lirian's eyes widened, the biscuit dropped from her fingers. "Excuse me?" she said after blinking.
The maid instantly bowed, trembling. "Forgive me, my lady. I was out of place. But I've been his nanny since the day he was born. I raised him. And I cannot, and will not—watch him die like this."
She broke into tears, but she straightened her back. "Even if you hate him, please… help him."
For a long moment, silence haunted the palace.
Lirian touched her cheek, glaring at the maid. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she stood up and dusted off her hands.
"Fine. Fine! But only because I'd feel bad if you keeled over from grief. Don't expect me to enjoy it."
The servants scattered, grateful. They piled her arms with supplies: bowls of water, cloths, herbal remedies, and a tray of food.
Lirian staggered under the weight. "Is this an infirmary or a buffet? You're lucky I'm generous."
She pushed open the door to Gabriel's chambers with her foot, kicking it shut behind her. No respect.
The air inside was stifling, and the sight that greeted her almost made her laugh out loud.
Gabriel, the terrifying villain of the story, was sprawled across the bed like a collapsed marionette.
His usual well -looked-after hair was a mess, looking like an eagle's nest.
His face was pale and damp with sweat.
He groaned, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes like a tragic actor.
"Wow," Lirian muttered, setting the supplies on a nearby table. "And here I thought you couldn't look worse."
Gabriel didn't respond, which was disappointing.
Lirian leaned closer, checking his fever with the back of her hand. He flinched but didn't wake.
"Well," she said, standing back, "this is boring."
Her eyes fell on her lipstick tube peeking out of her pocket. A wicked grin spread across her face.
Moments later, Lirian stood back to admire her handiwork.
Gabriel's face was now a masterpiece of smudged red doodles: a mustache, a pair of devil horns, and "PRINCE OF FOOLS" scrawled across his forehead. She giggled to herself.
"Oh, Gabriel," she said mockingly. "If only I had a camera. Back in my era, this would be all over social media. You'd go viral in seconds. Hashtag sickly tyrant. Hashtag villain in bed."
As she leaned over to add a finishing touch—a smiley face on his chin—Gabriel's hand lifted and grabbed her wrist.
Lirian yelped, her heart jumped into her throat. His grip was weak but strong enough to remind her of yesterday. His fevered eyes opened, distracted.
"Callista…" he whispered in a hoarse voice. "Run… Mother…"
Lirian froze.
The lipstick slipped from her hand, rolling onto the floor. "What?"
Gabriel groaned, his head rolled back against the pillow. "Mother… don't… Callista…" His voice broke off into weird murmurs.
Lirian stared at him, her brow furrowed. The names were unfamiliar.
"Callista? Mother?" Who are they?"
She crouched beside him, her earlier happiness seemed to be forgotten.
Something about the raw pain in his voice unsettled her. This wasn't the cold, calculating villain she knew from the novel.
She dipped a cloth into the bowl of water and pressed it to his forehead, muttering to herself.
"Don't think I'm doing this because I like you, Gabriel. I just don't want your nanny to cry all over me later."
He flinched at the cold, his hand twitched toward hers as if seeking comfort.
Lirian sighed and took his hand, muttering, "You're so pathetic right now it's almost sad."
Gabriel's breathing slowed as the cool cloth seemed to ease his fever.
"Why don't you just let me go?"