Page 28 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

“Stars, kid,” I mutter, adjusting him with the same touch I use for shattered limbs and shorted-out neuroports. “You’ve got your daddy’s left hook.”

He hiccups, pauses, and opens those eyes—those damn eyes.

Bright green like mine, sure, but shot through with gold. Not brown. Not hazel. Gold, like sunfire filtered through smoke.

Like Kyldak’s.

My chest cracks a little every time I see it. I tell myself it’s just a pigment anomaly. Postnatal retinal adaptation. Some mutation of the hybrid genome. But I know it’s not.

He hashiseyes.

And right now, those beautiful, furious, impossible eyes are glassy and hot. Too hot.

I freeze, the hair on my arms prickling.

“Kel?”

I press my lips to his forehead. Sweat-slick. Burning. His skin pulses with heat like a faulty reactor core.

“Shit.”

I lay him on the couch, fingers flying to grab the scanner from the end table. The model’s old, but it boots up fast, chirping as it initializes. I hover it over his chest. The readout pings red.

“Fever: 106.2,” it says, annoyingly calm.

My blood turns to ice.

“No, no, no?—”

I strip him down to his onesie, grab the coolant patches from the freezer, slap one on his back, another on his chest. He shrieks, arching like I’ve electrocuted him. Tears stream down his cheeks.

“I know, I know, baby, I know,” I croon, kissing his damp temple, trying to hold him steady as I swipe to call the pediatric clinic.

No answer.

Of course there’s no answer. It’s 0540 and this district doesn’t prioritize calls from unpartnered low-income hybrid dependents unless there’s arterial spray.

I try again.

Voicemail.

Again.

I punch in the override code Vira gave me—her old IHC clearance still worms its way past minor gatekeeping. The call diverts. A sleepy-looking nurse blinks into view.

“Emergency line,” she mutters.

“My son’s running a fever over one-oh-six,” I snap. “He’s hybrid. Two years old. I need a specialist. Now.”

That gets her attention. She keys something in fast. “Symptoms?”

“Fever, lethargy, random neural misfires in his right arm. And he’s—he’s glowing.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Only a little.”

The nurse stiffens. “How long since his last gene scan?”

“Three months.”

“Bring him in. Now. Seventh floor, red wing. Ask for Dr. Mahlir.”