Beneath a Fevered Sky

The starry tapestry fractured, and Ophelia retreated, her mind reeling, leaving her standing there, utterly adrift.

War…?

The word ‘war’ had intruded into Ophelia’s reality without the slightest harbinger. She was unprepared; indeed, she had made no preparations at all, yet here it was, looming on the horizon.

Though she possessed no true understanding of warfare, she grasped one undeniable truth: ‘Whether nations rise or fall, it is the common folk who endure the suffering.’ Now, with her people still grappling to secure even their most basic sustenance, the specter of conflict was once more upon them.

A troubled frown settled upon Ophelia’s brow.

Gazing silently out the window, she delved into thought, experiencing a profound sense of bewilderment she had never known before. The weight of responsibility pressed down upon her, a crushing burden, and despite her earnest efforts, no answers emerged from the depths of her contemplation.

The relentless current of the era swept onward.

‘Ultimately, she was but a single ripple upon its surface…’

Leaning against the window frame, Ophelia succumbed to melancholic contemplation, her thoughts growing heavy until she slowly drifted into sleep.

“Queen…?”

‘Huh…?’ she thought. ‘Had I fallen asleep…?’

‘My head felt so hazy…’

“Queen, why are you sleeping here? You’ll catch a cold!”

Who was speaking?

Ophelia tried to pry her eyes open, yet for some inexplicable reason, both her eyelids and her limbs felt exceptionally heavy. Her mind, too, was shrouded in a persistent fog, as if an unseen force actively impeded her thoughts.

“Queen? Queen?”

The voice continued to call.

Then, a cool object pressed against her forehead. Ophelia found its icy yet soft touch surprisingly comforting amidst her daze.

“Your forehead is very hot; you’ve caught a cold and have a fever.”

“Allow me to tend to you.”

The voice said.

Ophelia felt herself being lifted.

She was lifted effortlessly, suspended in the air like a child’s rag doll. The points of contact felt distinctly like armor.

‘This must be a princess carry, then?’

Then Ophelia felt herself being placed on a soft bed.

“Queen, you must rest today. Your subordinate will immediately arrange your leave, then prepare hot water, gather ice magic compresses, and assist you with washing your back.”

“Please ensure you remain thoroughly covered by the quilt and await my return, alright?”

This serious voice…

It could be none other than Marta.

If it was Marta, then she could surely rest easy, couldn’t she? After all, this was the heroine who offered even greater reassurance than Vina herself.

Ophelia nodded weakly.

She registered the retreating footsteps, followed by the distinct sound of the door opening and then softly closing.

It seemed she really had a fever.

Truly, to fall ill at such a critical juncture for the nation felt utterly preposterous.

****

Outside the room.

“You two may proceed,” Marta stated. “The Queen will likely be unable to join you in your duties today.”

“What’s wrong with the Queen?” Emily asked.

Marta offered a casual shrug. “She’s running a fever. I shall remain to attend to the Queen today, so please, all of you, rest assured.”

Emily nodded suspiciously:

“Don’t you dare try anything sneaky, Marta. If I discover you’ve been up to mischief, I won’t be lenient with you, understand?”

“Please place your trust in me,” Marta responded, executing a perfect knight’s salute. “I am quite discerning when it comes to the ill! Such an act would be utterly beyond me.”

Emily seemed poised to add more, but Vina gently tugged at her arm. “Enough, enough. Do you truly doubt Marta’s integrity? We must hasten to attend to affairs of state. As I mentioned yesterday, time is of the essence; we need to swiftly transition into a state of full military readiness.”

Emily sighed.

“You speak truly,” she conceded.

Emily cast a pointed glance at Marta, while a hint of playful amusement flickered across Vina’s features.

Marta stood ramrod straight, watching the two depart. Once they were out of sight, she turned and headed towards the scullery to draw water.

Hizeta secretly watched all of this.

‘Fever? And Marta is to be her nursemaid?’

Hizeta didn’t believe it for a second!

Marta was definitely planning something clandestine! Something like… that ‘flower-kiss therapy’ (TL Note: A fictional, suggestive therapeutic method often found in romance novels, implying intimate contact.) that those novels always mentioned…

It had to be!

How could Marta genuinely intend to care for the Queen with such pure intentions?

Hizeta lingered, then discreetly produced a projection stone.

‘Perhaps today, members of the tea party, perhaps today, our plan shall finally come to fruition!’

****

Ophelia lay on the bed.

A profound discomfort enveloped her. An aching agony, a dizzying head, and a body weighed down by an immense heaviness.

Her entire being felt as though it were ablaze. The quilt seemed impossibly heavy, and her skin was slick with copious sweat.

Then the quilt was lifted.

“Queen, I’ll wipe your back for you.”

Ophelia felt herself sit up.

A sudden, welcome lightness swept through her body, and at last, she could discern Marta’s face. Marta’s expression was intensely serious, befitting a loyal knight.

Ophelia felt a little unsteady sitting.

She swayed precariously, her head eventually coming to rest against Marta’s form.

A faint blush bloomed on Marta’s cheeks, yet she seemed to be exercising immense restraint. Uttering a soft, “Forgive my impertinence,” she then slowly, deliberately, began to divest Ophelia of her garments.

There existed an ancient idiom: ‘fragrant sweat profusely’.

Marta had never truly understood the notion of ‘fragrant sweat.’ Her own perspiration, after rigorous training, was invariably colorless and odorless, leading her to believe the concept a mere fabrication. Until, that is—

Today, she clandestinely leaned closer and inhaled.

It was akin to the fresh morning dew clinging to the petals of a flower at dawn.

A crystalline liquid, imbued with a delicate fragrance.

Marta’s gaze flickered, a complex interplay of light and shadow.

Ophelia lay before her, utterly vulnerable and exposed.

Marta found herself repeatedly inhaling and exhaling. For reasons unknown, Ophelia’s entire being now exuded that intoxicating fragrance, despite her body being drenched in sweat beneath the covers.

Her nasal passages became utterly saturated with Ophelia’s perfume, a scent that surged directly to her brain, leaving Marta feeling utterly disoriented, even somewhat spellbound.

Marta constantly warned herself.

‘You are the Queen’s knight! You are the Queen’s knight!’ she fiercely admonished herself. ‘To take advantage of the Queen in her illness would be a blatant transgression of the knightly code! It would be a betrayal of the profound affection you hold for her!’

Hot water. Wipe the body. Both front and back must be thoroughly cleansed.

‘Hmm, the front is rather sensitive…’

Therefore, a towel would be unsuitable. Better to simply dip her hand in the warm water and use her bare palm.

‘Absolutely no ulterior motives here! This is purely for the Queen’s well-being!’

Ophelia remained in a state of hazy disorientation.

She registered a warm, gentle touch migrating to her front.

Soft, imbued with a lingering warmth.

It slowly, deliberately, grazed the apex of her peaks.

Already far from lucid, Ophelia, subjected to such ministrations, felt an electric current spark at her core, instantly coursing through her entire being.

Had Ophelia been fully conscious, she might have retained some semblance of decorum.

But in her current state, lucidity was a distant memory.

Desire emanated from her body, and her body had already become the heart’s willing prison.

With a soft sigh, she collapsed further into Marta’s embrace.

At once, Marta’s breathing grew noticeably ragged.

‘I’ve heard tell of a therapy called flower-kiss therapy,’ Marta mused, her internal monologue a desperate justification. ‘So, therefore, this is for the Queen’s own good. I must endeavor to heal her with all my might!’

Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her head forward.

The Queen’s face was now a flush of crimson, her eyes clouded with a hazy glaze.

With a tender touch, she gently guided the Queen’s head to face her.

Then, extending her tongue, she softly, intimately, commenced the flower-kiss therapy.

From her hidden vantage point in the shadows, Hizeta watched the entire scene unfold, utterly transfixed and dumbfounded.

A choked cry nearly escaped her lips, forcing her to clap a hand over her mouth. A sudden, overwhelming urge to weep washed over her, followed by a fierce desire to burst forth and disrupt the entire sordid tableau.

With sheer willpower, she managed to suppress it.

‘Everything was breaking apart.’

Hizeta felt herself shatter in that single, agonizing moment.

The light in her eyes seemed to dim, then vanish.

And shadows, in turn, painted over the darkness.