More days, more deaths. Some others beat the fever and emerge with rose-or umbermarks. In his private cottage, Commander Arxa continues to battle his own illness. I’ve spent so much time with him that I’ve learned the patterns of his ramblings. Sometimes I give his battle commands alongside him. I even start bringing him good news from his imaginary war, in hopes that it might ease his mind and rally his spirit to fight. Other times I have nonsensical conversations with him about the mysterious Mehtap. I decide that she is his daughter, because of the protective way he speaks of her.

On the ninth day, I check on him at dawn and see his marks faded to a dull brown. His forehead is covered with sweat, but no longer hot to the touch. I can’t believe it at first, and I walk around him, looking at him from different angles of light. It’s the same from every direction.

When I step closer, his eyes flutter open.

“Zivah,” he whispers.

It startles me that he knows my name.

The commander looks around him, taking in his surroundings. “Where are my men?” he asks. “How many fell ill?”

I open my mouth to reply, but instead I break down into incoherent sobs. Doron comes tearing into the room, ashen, but I shake my head and point toward the still-disoriented commander. It takes me several tries to get the word “umbermarks” out clearly enough to be understood. By then, Doron is already at Arxa’s side, seeing his condition for himself. And a layer of fatigue lifts off his face.

Doron puts a hand on my shoulder. “Good work, Zivah. The commander is alive because of your care.”

The commander is one of the last to break the disease’s hold, and it doesn’t take much longer for the rest of the soldiers to die or pull through.