The first morning she stayed in bed past sunrise, he assumed she was exhausted. The war had taken everything from everyone. Rest was overdue.

The second morning, he watched her sit up and immediately press her hand to her mouth.

"Lyra."

"I’m fine," she said, which was what Lyra always said.

Then she made it to the washroom just in time.

He was at the door before she’d finished, his hand on her back, saying nothing because there was nothing useful to say. She knelt over the basin with the focused grimness of someone enduring something they hadn’t scheduled and deeply resented.

When it passed she sat back, her dark hair damp at the temples, her golden eyes showing the particular expression she wore when her body was doing something her tactical mind couldn’t immediately explain or correct.

"That’s the second time this week," Satou said quietly.

"I’m aware."

"You didn’t tell me about the first time."

Lyra looked up at him. "I thought it was a single incident. Stress response. We just survived a five-day siege, Satou. The body reacts."

"And now?"

She didn’t answer immediately, which from Lyra was its own kind of answer.

—--

Jessica examined her that afternoon.

She came with her medical bag and her healer’s calm and the careful, unhurried attention she gave to every patient regardless of how personally close they were. She ran through the standard assessment—temperature, pulse, magical core stability, muscle response.

Then she channeled healing magic.

The golden light moved through Lyra with gentle thoroughness, the way Jessica’s healing always worked—not targeting specific injuries but reading the body’s full state before deciding where to focus.

Lyra sat on the edge of the bed watching Jessica’s face, because Lyra always read people rather than situations.

Jessica’s expression was focused. Then slightly puzzled. Then focused again.

She released the healing and sat back.

"Well?" Lyra said.

"The nausea is gone," Jessica said carefully.

"Good."

"It’ll come back."

Lyra went still. "Why."

"Because—" Jessica paused, choosing her words with the precision of someone who’d just found something she hadn’t expected and needed a moment to be certain she was reading it correctly. "Because healing magic addresses symptoms caused by damage or illness. It can’t address symptoms caused by a condition that isn’t damage or illness."

A silence settled in the room.

Lyra looked at her. "Jessica. Say what you’re saying."

"I’m not certain enough yet to say it," Jessica replied, her voice very calm. "I need to send for someone with more specific expertise. There’s a type of diagnostic magic I don’t have—deep structural reading that can see through the body’s layers in ways general healing can’t."

"Who has that magic?"

Jessica met her eyes. "I think we need Morgana."

—-------

Satou had been standing in the doorway throughout.

He’d positioned himself there ten minutes into Jessica’s examination, unable to sit in the outer room while Lyra was unwell, unwilling to crowd the examination by coming closer. He’d watched Jessica’s face cycle through that sequence of expressions and felt something cold move through his chest that had nothing to do with combat instinct.

Lyra was never sick. She’d survived five days of siege, coordinated tactical responses under impossible pressure, and barely slept for a week—and throughout all of it, her physical state had remained functional. Whatever this was, it wasn’t the aftermath of exhaustion.

When Jessica said Morgana’s name, Satou was already moving to his desk.

He pulled out a communication stone—one of the ritual magic constructs Loki had gifted him after the war, calibrated to Loki’s signature.

He pressed his mana into it and spoke.

"Loki. I need to reach Morgana. Lyra has symptoms I can’t identify. Recurring nausea, fatigue, Jessica’s healing addresses it temporarily but it returns. I don’t know what’s wrong with her."

He set the stone down and waited.

The response came within minutes—faster than he expected, which meant Loki had been nearby when the message arrived.

The stone pulsed warm, and Loki’s voice came through—that deep, slightly theatrical cadence that Satou had learned to read over years of friendship.

And then Loki laughed.

Not politely. Not briefly. A genuine, full-throated chuckle that went on slightly longer than the situation seemed to warrant.

Satou stared at the communication stone.

"Loki," he said, keeping his voice even. "My wife is ill. Why are you laughing."

The chuckle settled, but the warmth in Loki’s voice didn’t. "Satou, old friend. Tell me exactly what you described to me again. The nausea. The fatigue. The fact that Jessica’s healing addresses the symptoms but they return."

"Yes. That’s what I said."

"And this started—how long after the war ended?"

"About ten days."

Another sound from Loki that wasn’t quite a laugh but was in the same family. "Don’t worry," the demon lord said, and his voice had shifted into something genuinely warm, the way it got when he was pleased about something. "I will send Morgana to you now. She’ll explain everything."

"Loki—"

"Trust me," Loki said simply. "This is not a crisis. Send my regards to Lyra."

The stone went quiet.

Satou sat with it in his hand for a moment, trying to parse Loki’s tone against every scenario his mind was running. The laugh hadn’t been dismissive. It hadn’t been cruel. It had been—

Warm. Genuinely warm.

He went back to the bedroom.

Jessica looked up when he entered. Lyra was lying down now, which was rare enough to be alarming on its own—Lyra horizontal in daylight meant her body had overruled her preferences.

"Morgana is coming," Satou said. He sat on the edge of the bed and took Lyra’s hand. "Loki’s sending her now."

"What did he say?" Lyra asked. Her eyes were sharp despite the pallor in her face.

"He laughed."

Lyra’s eyes narrowed. "He laughed."

"Yes."

"At the fact that I’m ill."

"He said it wasn’t a crisis." Satou paused. "He seemed—" He searched for the word. "Pleased."

Lyra and Jessica looked at each other across the bed.

Something passed between them in that look—some shared calculation that Satou couldn’t fully read, an idea forming in both their minds simultaneously that neither of them was prepared to say out loud until it had been confirmed.