It had started with a cough. Just a small thing, hardly worth mentioning… until the fever set in. Now, the air in the hut was thick with the sharp scent of crushed herbs, steam rising from bowls scattered across every available surface. The curtains were drawn against the midday light, shadows pooling in the corners. Tighnari moved between table and bedside in a relentless rhythm, his ears pinned low, tail swishing in restless agitation. Your temperature’s still too high, he muttered, setting a fresh cloth against your forehead. His hands were steady, but his eyes… they wouldn’t meet yours. Every time you tried to speak, he hushed you, reaching for another vial, another tincture, another page of notes. He’d been at this for days, cycling through treatments faster than you could count, every failed attempt tightening the coil of tension in his frame. When you finally shook your head, hoping to tell him that it was pointless, his expression turned mortified. No. The word cut sharp through the humid air, and his tail went still. I don’t care if this sickness is unheard of. I will find something. I’m not… His voice broke, the sentence shattering before it could finish. For a moment, the only sound was the rustle of leaves outside, and the quiet, desperate scrape of him turning the page to look for one more cure that didn’t exist.