Fred stood, palming his throat and working his neck. He coughed twice, then swallowed several times, the discomfort in his stomach intensifying. A stinging numbness spread through his body; his limbs felt weak, his vision blurry. He shook his head vigorously, trying to convince himself it was all in his imagination, that Lily had lied about the poison.
“Still, I feel awful. Damn it!”
He punched the wall, furious at his own carelessness. He’d believed he was in control, that Lily wouldn’t—couldn't—dare do anything to him. He’d underestimated her, hadn’t anticipated a sneak attack, or her ability to concoct poison while captive.
“My arm hurts, too!”
He looked at his dangling arm, his fury escalating. The numbness from the intense pain had almost made him forget the break; he only remembered it after punching the wall with his other arm. The pain was overwhelming, nearly suffocating. He suppressed a growl and slowly crouched, clutching his arm.
"Your Grace!" Alarmed, his companions quickly surrounded him. They’d assumed his arm was fine, given his brisk pace moments before.
"Get me a doctor!" Fred gritted out.
"Right away, sir!" The guard hesitated. "What about the Hyderland officers?"
Fred wanted to tell them to leave, but checked himself. He wasn't in Yudonia anymore, where such pronouncements were acceptable. He took a deep breath. "Tell them to wait in the reception room. I'll meet them after attending to something important." He paused. "Tell them the embassy doesn't require their services; we have our own sanitation team and equipment. There are no viruses here!"
"Yes, sir!" The guard hurried away.
But Fred's eyes rolled as he struggled to rise. He collapsed, unconscious, the pain finally overwhelming him. His companions rushed him to the lounge and summoned a doctor.
Meanwhile, five people in hazmat suits, carrying professional disinfection equipment, waited impatiently in the reception room. One said, "When will the ambassador arrive? We have other places to disinfect. Please hurry and cooperate."