The black rose pulsed with sickly energy in its glass prison. I couldn't tear my eyes away from it as Alaric II's ragged breathing filled the room. Three days had passed since we found the Shadow Bloom beside his pillow, and my son's condition worsened by the hour.
"Your Grace." Dr. Winters approached with slumped shoulders. "The latest herbal remedy has proven ineffective. His fever continues to rise."
I slammed my fist against the wall. "There must be something we can do!"
Eleanor sat beside our son's bed, pressing cool cloths to his forehead. Her eyes were hollow from sleeplessness. "He's burning up, Lysander. Nothing helps."
I watched my five-year-old son toss in fevered dreams, his skin ashen except for two bright spots of color on his cheeks. His lips moved constantly, forming words no child should know.
"The stars align when shadow falls," he whispered in his delirium. "The Thorne Star dims..."
