Garon stood at the edge of the village, the bowl of venom clutched tightly in his hands. The night was still, the air thick with the faint scent of decay, a reminder of the sickness that had plagued his people for weeks. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and hope swirling within him as he prepared to do as the goddess had commanded.
The venom—dark and viscous—gleamed faintly in the moonlight, its power thrumming just beneath the surface. One drop, Aracnys had said. One drop in water, and it will heal them. Garon wasn't sure how it would work, but he had sworn his loyalty to her, and he would not doubt her now.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The villagers had been desperate for a cure, and now he held it in his hands. But would they believe him? Would they accept the strange liquid he was about to offer them, or would they question where it had come from?
He couldn't worry about that now. The goddess had given him the power to heal, and it was his duty to follow through.
Garon approached the first house, his hands trembling slightly as he knocked on the door. It creaked open a moment later, revealing a young woman with dark circles under her eyes. Her face was pale, her body frail from weeks of illness. She looked at him with a mixture of hope and fear.
"Garon?" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "Do you have something... to help us?"
Garon nodded, his throat tight as he held up the bowl. "I do," he said quietly. "It's... something new. But I believe it will work."
The woman glanced at the bowl, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What is it?"
"It's a remedy," Garon replied, his voice steadying. "Something that will heal you and everyone else. You just need to trust me."
The woman hesitated, her eyes flickering between Garon and the bowl. But she was too weak, too desperate to question him further. With a nod, she stepped aside, allowing him to enter.
Garon placed the bowl on the table and poured a cup of water. His hands shook slightly as he dipped his finger into the bowl, drawing out a single drop of venom. It clung to his fingertip, dark and glistening, before he let it fall into the water.
The venom dissolved instantly, disappearing into the clear liquid.
"Drink this," Garon said, offering the cup to the woman. "It will heal you."
She took the cup, her fingers trembling as she brought it to her lips. Garon watched, his heart racing, as she took a small sip. For a moment, nothing happened. But then, the color began to return to her face, her breathing steadied, and the dark circles beneath her eyes faded.
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "I... I feel better," she whispered, her voice filled with awe. "Garon... it worked."
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relief washed over him. It had worked. The venom had healed her, just as the goddess had promised.
But there were many more who needed his help.
Garon moved from house to house, repeating the same ritual. A single drop of venom into a cup of water, then offered to the sick. The villagers drank eagerly, too desperate to question what the healer had brought them. And each time, the results were the same—the color returned to their cheeks, their strength renewed, the sickness that had ravaged their bodies fading away.
As the hours passed, Garon felt a strange sense of calm settle over him. He had done it. He had saved them. The goddess' power had flowed through him, and he had been the one to deliver the cure. The village would survive because of him.
But as dawn broke, and the last of the villagers had been healed, a nagging thought crept into the back of his mind. What would they think of him now? Would they see him as a hero, the healer who had saved them all? Or would they begin to question where this miracle had come from?
For now, he pushed the thought aside. The villagers were resting, recovering from their ordeal. He would give them time to heal, and then he would explain everything.
Days passed, and the village was alive again. Children played in the streets, merchants returned to their stalls, and the once-empty homes were now filled with the laughter and chatter of families who had been reunited after weeks of illness.
But there was a tension in the air, one that Garon couldn't ignore.
It started with whispers—small, quiet conversations that he wasn't meant to hear. Villagers glancing at him from a distance, their eyes filled with suspicion rather than gratitude. At first, he thought it was nothing, a remnant of the fear that had gripped them during the sickness.
But then he heard the first accusation.
"He's the reason we got sick in the first place."
Garon's heart skipped a beat as the words reached his ears. He had been walking through the village when he overheard two men speaking in hushed tones near the blacksmith's shop. They hadn't seen him, and their conversation was quick, but the words echoed in his mind long after they had left.
"I'm telling you, it's too strange," one of them said. "How could he have had the cure all along?"
"Exactly," the other replied. "He's been keeping it from us. Waiting until we were desperate enough. Maybe... maybe he made us sick on purpose."
Garon froze, his blood turning cold. They couldn't believe that, could they?
But the whispers didn't stop. In fact, they grew louder with each passing day. Some of the villagers began to avoid him, their eyes filled with doubt and fear. Others outright refused to speak to him, turning away whenever he approached.
And then came the voices.
At first, Garon thought it was just paranoia—a product of his own growing anxiety. But then he began to notice something strange. The villagers, though healed, were behaving oddly. Some of them would stop suddenly in the middle of a conversation, their eyes distant, as though listening to something only they could hear.
And it wasn't long before they began to confront him.
"It was you, wasn't it?" one man demanded, his eyes wild with fear. "You made us sick! You sold your soul to some... some devil, didn't you? So you could be the hero!"
Garon shook his head, stepping back in disbelief. "No, I didn't—"
"You had the cure the whole time!" a woman shouted, her voice trembling with anger. "You let us suffer so you could pretend to save us!"
The accusations came faster and faster, the villagers' faces twisted with fear and suspicion. Garon tried to defend himself, tried to explain, but it was no use. They didn't believe him. They couldn't believe him.
And then he heard it—the same voice they were hearing. A soft, insidious whisper at the back of his mind, planting seeds of doubt and fear.
"He betrayed you."
Garon's heart raced as the voice repeated itself, over and over. The villagers were hearing it too—he could see it in their eyes. The same voice, the same lies, spreading through the village like wildfire.
Before he knew it, they were upon him.
They came for him in the dead of night, a mob of villagers armed with torches and pitchforks. Garon barely had time to react before they broke down his door, their faces filled with rage and terror.
"You sold us out!" one man shouted, grabbing him by the arm. "You made us sick! And now we're going to make sure you never do it again!"
Garon struggled, but there were too many of them. They dragged him through the village, their shouts echoing in the night. The entire village was awake now, gathered in the square to watch what was about to happen.
They tied him to a wooden pole, his arms bound tightly behind him. Garon's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with fear and confusion. How had it come to this? He had saved them. He had done everything the goddess had asked of him. And now, they were going to kill him for it.
The villagers gathered around, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of the torches. Some of them looked hesitant, unsure, but others were filled with a cold, burning hatred.
"He sold his soul to a devil!" one man shouted. "That's how he cured us. He's a traitor to this village!"
"Burn him!" another cried. "Burn the witch!"
Garon's breath caught in his throat as the mob grew louder, their chants filling the night air. The flames of their torches licked higher, casting long shadows across the square. He could feel the heat already, the fire that would soon consume him.
He looked out over the crowd, his eyes filled with desperation. How had it come to this?
But deep down, he knew.
The voice. The whispers. It had turned them against him. It had poisoned their minds, made them believe that he was the enemy. And now, there was nothing he could do to stop them.
As the flames drew closer, Garon closed his eyes, a single thought running through his mind.
Goddess... save me.