Eline did not think much of it at first.
Even an hour after returning from the garden, the heat in his skin had not settled. It lingered beneath the surface, a dull, persistent warmth that made his face feel tighter than usual. He assumed it would fade on its own. It had happened before. His skin had always been like that—too pale, too sensitive, reacting more than it should.
He sat for a while, then lay back on the bed, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling again. The same ceiling, the same stillness.
Maybe it will go away after I sleep.
The thought came easily, almost automatically.
A faint breath left him, something close to a tired amusement. "All I do is sleep," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible in the quiet room.
Still, he closed his eyes.
Sleep came without much resistance.
When he woke, it was not gradual.
He had turned in his sleep, shifting to his side, and the moment his face pressed against the pillow, a sharp sting ran through his skin.
Eline's eyes opened immediately.
He drew back, his brows pulling together as the sensation lingered. It wasn't just discomfort—it was sharper, more sensitive than it should have been, as though even the lightest contact was too much.
Slowly, he pushed himself up, his hand lifting to his face out of instinct. The moment his fingers brushed his skin, he paused.
It felt wrong.
Hot.
Tight.
Almost stretched.
He stood and walked toward the mirror, his steps slower now, a quiet unease settling in his chest.
For a moment, he said nothing.
His reflection stared back at him, unfamiliar in a way that made him hesitate.
The redness had deepened significantly, spreading across his entire face. His cheeks were flushed a harsh, uneven shade, the color extending over the bridge of his nose and into his temples. The skin looked irritated, almost raw under the dimming light of the evening. There was a faint swelling too, subtle but noticeable enough to alter the softness of his features.
He stared a second longer, then let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
The room had already begun to dim with the evening light, but his skin still held the intensity of the afternoon sun, as if it had been trapped there.
He stepped back from the mirror, his hand hovering near his face before pulling away again without touching it.
Back home, this wouldn't have mattered.
He had dealt with this before—carelessly staying out too long, forgetting how quickly his skin reacted. There had always been something to fix it. Ointments. Cooling creams. Simple solutions that worked within hours.
Here, there was nothing.
He exhaled slowly, trying to think through it.
It should go away.
By tomorrow, at least.
That was how it usually worked.
He held onto that thought, though it didn't feel entirely convincing.
Then another thought followed.
Dinner.
Someone would come. Or he would have to step out.
His gaze shifted toward the door, then back to his reflection.
His face didn't look normal. Not even close.
For a moment, he considered ignoring it. Staying inside. Pretending it didn't matter.
But that wouldn't last long.
And avoiding it wouldn't change anything.
He hesitated, then finally moved toward the door. Opening it just a fraction, enough to see the hallway without fully stepping out, he leaned slightly forward.
A maid was passing by.
"Can you bring me some ice?" he said, keeping his voice low, his hand still holding the door in place so it wouldn't open any wider. "In a bowl. And… cold water."
The maid paused, her eyes immediately drawn to the narrow opening, to the way he did not step out fully, to the slight tension in his voice.
"Yes, sir," she replied.
Eline gave a small nod and closed the door again.
A few minutes later, there was a soft knock.
He opened the door just enough again.
The maid stood there, holding a bowl of cold water with pieces of ice floating on the surface. She handed it to him carefully, her movements steady, but her eyes flickered upward for a brief moment.
It was enough.
The redness, the slight swelling—she noticed it.
Eline took the bowl without meeting her gaze for long and closed the door again, the quiet click of it sounding sharper than usual.
Inside, he placed the bowl on the table and sat down in front of it. For a moment, he simply looked at the surface, watching the ice shift slightly in the water.
Then he leaned forward and lowered his face into it.
The cold hit instantly.
Sharp and almost painful at first, but then—
Relief.
A slow breath left him as he stayed there, letting the cold settle into his skin, trying to draw out the heat that had been trapped there for hours.
Outside, the maid remained still for a moment after the door closed.
Her expression tightened slightly, not out of fear, but out of quiet concern.
Something was not right.
She turned and walked down the hallway, her steps measured, purposeful.
It did not take long to find Carlson.
She stopped at a respectful distance. "Sir," she said.
Carlson looked at her, his attention shifting without impatience.
"There is something i wouldlike to inform you."
She did not elaborate immediately.
She did not need to.
Her tone carried enough weight on its own.