I sold all the medicines to the villagers, enough to get by for maybe three days. But with every passing child, my anger at the prank grew. How could someone be so cruel? Then I spotted the city library—the only one in the kingdom that could rival the royal library. My thoughts clashed. Should I go inside and check, just in case?
After a minute of staring at it, I finally decided. If there's even a slim chance of finding a cure for my mother, I have to take it. The librarian greeted me with a smile.
"Could you please tell me where the ancient history section is?" I asked, returning her smile.
"Sure, go straight and take the last right," she said, pointing the way.
I followed her directions and soon saw the bold letters: Ancient History. I began pulling out as many books as I could carry, my frustration mounting with each one that offered no answers. By the ninth book, I was ready to give up—until I spotted a title that caught my eye: Ancient Diseases.
I quickly grabbed it. A book on diseases in the history section? It should be in medicine. I pushed the thought aside and sat down, flipping through the pages. The first sections were nothing new, but then I came across the case of King Imzal, who died from a rare and unusual illness. The symptoms were chillingly familiar: blood cough, sudden graying of hair, weakness, and a prolonged coma. In the third stage, black spots appeared on the body. The final stage was death. The doctors had named it Infernal Decay.
Infernal Decay! It wasn't a prank—it was the truth! I slammed the book shut and rushed back to the cottage on the hill, my heart racing.
I picked up the crumpled paper from earlier and sat at the kitchen table, reading it again: I CAN CURE HER. KILL THE TWO PRINCES.
No, I can't. I'm an assassin, yes, but killing them and getting away alive? That's impossible.
What if I could make my own medicine? But there was no cure written in the book, and I had already tried everything I could think of. My mind was spinning with indecision. Unable to sit still, I got up from my chair and went to check on my mom.
It had been hours, and she still hadn't woken up. My brow furrowed as I glanced at the sun—she never stayed in bed this late. A knot of worry formed in my stomach. I walked over to her and noticed a black mark on her arm. Alarmed, I pulled back the blanket and gasped. Her entire body was covered in black spots.
How had I not noticed? She had been wearing long sleeves and keeping herself covered… I felt a wave of fear wash over me and tried to wake her. She wouldn't budge. Panic surged through me, and I shook her violently.
"MOM!! MOM!! MOM, WAKE UP, PLEASE!!" I screamed, the sound echoing in the silent room. Was she dead?
Desperation clawed at me as I lay my head on her chest, straining to hear her heartbeat. It was faint but steady. I checked her breathing—she was still breathing, but she wasn't moving. I shook her again, but she didn't even flinch.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I collapsed near her feet, the weight of helplessness pressing down on me. "Mom," I whispered through sobs, "I will do anything. Forgive me if something happens."
Was she just unconscious, or had she slipped into a coma? I didn't know, but I couldn't risk losing her. I wiped the tears from my eyes, grabbed a piece of paper, ink, and a feather, and began to write.