Tolten could only pray he had the strength of body and mind to manage the thin line between defending himself and hurting Locke. He hadn't expected to find himself the transformed man's target, but why wouldn't he be? He was the one burning with fever and dragging his feet. He was the weakened prey.

The young king's arm came out, his sword held out to the side, to push Locke back with everything he had. He felt a sting in his arm and cried out, his empty hand balling into a fist to knock against the feral wildcat's head. Oh gods it hurt! It hurt and he was weakened and ill and already tears were burning in the corners of his eyes.

But he saw what Edgar was trying to do and put all his strength into shoving the now-monstrous Locke to the side hall as he struggled to shove it off.

Oh please, all the gods and my great ancestor, grant me the strength to dislodge him...