Nevara
By midday I had lost any illusion that this was something I could simply breathe through.
It had begun as distraction—a restless ache beneath my skin, a constant hum of need that made concentration slippery—but by afternoon it had sharpened into something almost feverish. My whole body felt too sensitive, too warm, every movement aggravating an urgency I could no longer pretend was manageable.
The ancient text had called it a heat response.
That phrase had sounded almost clinical when I read it.
It felt nothing like that.
It felt like my blood had been set on fire.
By the time I reached Thoren’s office, I was done being dignified about it.
Salas was inside with him bent over maps and reports when I pushed the door open hard enough for both men to look up.
“Salas,” I said, p
