Chapter 82: The Fever Returns

  The deep, freezing night of the Jagged Peaks descended rapidly, completely plunging their sheltered rocky depression into absolute, suffocating darkness, illuminated entirely by the dancing, crackling orange flames of Zeno's highly controlled campfire. The high-altitude wind howled violently above the towering boulders, sounding exactly like a chorus of starving wolves, but the deep, natural bowl they occupied remained completely still and insulated.

  Lyra’s condition had completely deteriorated. The heavy, protective cocoon of warm blankets and pelts was entirely failing to stop her violent, continuous shivering. The severe fever had returned with an absolute vengeance, entirely fueled by the massive, draining exertion of the battle and the sudden, complete absence of the suppressive anti-magic field that had kept the infection at bay.

  Her normally pale skin was flushed a dangerous, sickly red, heavily slick with cold, agonizing sweat. She tossed her head weakly from side to side, her emerald eyes tightly closed, entirely trapped within a highly delirious, agonizing haze. Beneath her heavy leather bracer, the toxic crimson lines were actively expanding, visibly pulsing as the Snare Vine spores violently sought to consume her remaining natural energy to sustain their own parasitic growth. Her breathing was incredibly shallow, accompanied by a harsh, rattling cough that shook her entire frame.

  Zeno sat perfectly still beside her, his massive frame hunched over, his usually bright, cheerful amber eyes completely filled with a deep, profound, terrifyingly unfamiliar emotion: sheer, helpless fear.

  He possessed an absolutely monstrous Strength stat. He could easily shatter heavy iron shields, confidently gut two-ton desert sharks, and physically beat a fully armored Treant into splinters. He was an unstoppable, walking siege engine of blunt force trauma.

  But he absolutely could not punch a microscopic fever. He could not physically wrestle a toxic spore out of her fragile bloodstream. For the very first time in his entire journey, his overwhelming physical power was entirely, absolutely useless.

  "Lyra," Zeno murmured, his voice incredibly soft, heavily thick with worry. He gently pressed the back of his massive, cool hand against her burning forehead. She was incredibly hot to the touch, exactly like a stone left completely exposed to the searing desert sun. "Please do not disappear. The needle absolutely cannot break yet."

  She let out a soft, highly pained whimper, coughing weakly, completely unable to form coherent words.

  Zeno withdrew his hand, his jaw clenching tightly. He absolutely refused to simply sit there and watch his best friend suffer in agony. He had to act. He had to build a reliable floor in the deep mud.

  He turned entirely toward his heavy, bubbling iron cauldron resting directly over the fire. He didn't have the fresh Frost-Mint leaves or the incredibly sharp Eucalyptus bark he had purchased in the vibrant markets of Verdant Reach; those specific medicinal supplies had been completely exhausted days ago in the desert. He only had standard, long-lasting travel provisions and simple, culinary spices.

  Zeno closed his eyes, entirely forcing his newly expanding, organic intelligence to completely focus. He heavily engaged his Basic Herbalism passive skill, desperately searching his mind for a highly functional, viable alternative.

  The pink dust absolutely hates the intense heat, Zeno remembered flawlessly from his previous, successful treatment in the jungle. It needs to be violently flushed out of the blood with a heavy sweat, and her lungs need to open. If I do not have the cold mint to open the airways, I must use the hot spices to force them open.

  Zeno moved with absolute, mechanical precision. He completely unpacked his heavy leather storage bags. He pulled out the remaining jars of the incredibly fiery, aggressive southern spices he had used to season the massive mountain sheep. He found a small, heavily wrapped bundle containing completely dried, highly pungent wild jungle onions.

  He didn't make a standard, comforting stew to feed her. Forcing a delirious, coughing person to swallow boiling, aggressively spicy liquid would completely shock her system and likely choke her to death. He needed a much smarter, safer delivery method.

  He aggressively crushed the wild jungle onions with the heavy, flat pommel of his dagger, entirely releasing their incredibly sharp, tear-inducing oils, and swept them entirely into the boiling iron pot. Finally, he unceremoniously dumped the entire, remaining contents of the fiery red spice jars directly into the bubbling snow-water.

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  The resulting steam that instantly bloomed from the massive iron cauldron was completely overpowering. It didn't smell like a savory dinner; it smelled like an absolute, raw physical assault. The intense, heavily concentrated capsaicin and sharp onion oils made Zeno’s own eyes water profusely just leaning over the pot to stir it.

  It was a highly aggressive, purely medicinal vapor.

  Zeno quickly used a thick cloth to lift the heavy, bubbling cauldron directly off the roaring flames. He set it carefully on the frozen stone floor right next to Lyra's resting head.

  He gently, carefully lifted her heavy upper body, supporting her entirely against his broad, sturdy chest. He didn't pick up a spoon. Instead, he took the largest, thickest white Yeti pelt they possessed and draped it completely over both Lyra’s head and the steaming, spicy cauldron, creating a completely sealed, heavy steam tent that trapped the aggressive vapor entirely inside.

  "You have to breathe very deeply, Lyra," Zeno urged softly from outside the pelt, his voice completely steady, projecting absolute, unwavering confidence to anchor her through the delirium. "The spicy air will burn the pink dust completely out of your chest. Breathe the fire."

  Beneath the heavy pelt, Lyra inhaled the incredibly concentrated, highly spiced steam.

  The physiological response was completely instantaneous and highly violent.

  The sheer, overwhelming heat and the sharp, burning capsaicin hit her congested lungs like a physical lightning bolt. She coughed violently, a harsh, entirely desperate, racking sound, physically trying to violently expel the aggressive vapor.

  "I know it hurts, but keep breathing," Zeno commanded gently, completely refusing to lift the pelt, entirely holding her steady against his chest. "You have to be incredibly strong. The needle does not quit."

  Lyra gasped, her chest heaving aggressively, and she finally, reflexively drew another deep, shuddering breath of the medicinal steam. The intense onion oils forced her airways completely open, aggressively breaking down the toxic congestion caused by the spores.

  He kept her under the steam tent for ten agonizing, highly stressful minutes. She coughed relentlessly, but the harsh rattling in her chest slowly, methodically began to clear. The massive, overwhelming influx of fiery steam caused her core body temperature to violently spike even higher, forcing a massive, immediate thermal response. She began to sweat absolutely profusely, the heavy moisture literally pouring down her flushed face and soaking her thick undershirt.

  When Zeno finally pulled the heavy pelt away, Lyra fell heavily back against his chest, entirely exhausted by the internal battle, but her breathing was drastically, undeniably clearer.

  Zeno didn't stop there. With her airways completely open and the immediate crisis stabilized, he quickly poured a small cup of simple, highly nutritious, unspiced meat broth he had prepared on the side. He carefully fed her a few small, gentle sips to entirely replace her lost fluids and replenish her completely drained energy.

  The aggressive, highly unorthodox steam treatment had visibly worked.

  Slowly, agonizingly, the dark, angry crimson lines branching across her neck and wrist began to visibly recede. They entirely burrowed back deep into her skin, completely beaten back into a state of dormant submission by the overwhelming thermal assault and the clearing of her lungs.

  The terrifying, sickly flush faded entirely from her cheeks, leaving her looking completely exhausted, but undeniably, fundamentally alive. The severe fever had successfully broken.

  Zeno let out a massive, highly shuddering breath that completely felt like he had been holding it for an entire hour. He slumped heavily forward, resting his forehead entirely on his knees, completely drained by the sheer, profound emotional terror of the ordeal.

  He sat up slowly, wiping his tired eyes. He looked at the sleeping scout, and then entirely down at his own massive, heavily scarred hands.

  He had saved her tonight, using logic and herbal steam, but he completely realized with absolute, terrifying clarity that this was merely a temporary, desperate patch on a rapidly sinking boat. The aggressive spices had merely forced the toxic spores to hide again; they had absolutely not cured the fundamental, underlying infection. Every single time Lyra heavily exhausted her magic, the spores would violently return, each time stronger and infinitely more aggressive than the last.

  They absolutely, desperately needed a true, permanent, medical cure, and they needed it incredibly quickly.

  Zeno stood up, throwing another heavy log onto the dying fire. He completely ignored his own deep, aching exhaustion. He walked over to his backpack and pulled out the thin, green-leather-bound book and his wooden tray of fine white sand.

  He sat completely cross-legged by the warm fire, entirely assuming his position as the silent, unyielding guardian of the camp.

  He opened the book, staring intensely at the complex shapes on the page. His face was entirely devoid of its usual, innocent cheerfulness. It was a mask of pure, absolute, focused determination.

  S. T. U.

  "S is for Sledgehammer," Zeno whispered softly into the quiet, freezing mountain night, his thick finger perfectly, flawlessly tracing the sharp curves deeply into the sand. "T is for Target. And U is for Understand."

  He was entirely done simply relying on his heavy fists to entirely solve their problems. He was going to completely learn how to read the complex maps. He was going to entirely read the heavy medical texts. He was going to completely figure out exactly where the shiny silver astrolabe pointed, and he was going to definitively find the legendary people who could entirely, permanently fix his best friend.

  The incredibly long, winding road ahead was completely filled with dangerous assassins, terrifying monsters, and dark, corrupted magic, but Zeno completely swore to the roaring fire that he would become smart enough, and hit entirely hard enough, to carry them safely all the way to the absolute end.