The air smelled of ash and decay. Gray clouds clung to the sky like a permanent bruise, blotting out any hint of sunlight. Darian trudged through the brittle underbrush, his steps careful as he scanned the ground for anything of use. A sprig of mint, a stubborn patch of dandelion—anything that might be traded for bread or salt.
He knelt by a thorny bush, its withered leaves barely clinging to life. His fingers brushed the soil, dry and cracked like old parchment. Useless. Everything was. He wiped the sweat from his brow, though the air was cold enough to bite. His knife, little more than a jagged shard of metal, hung loosely in his belt. It was there more for show than protection.
In the distance, the ruins of what had once been a village jutted out like broken teeth. Darian avoided looking at it too long. The sight always brought back memories he'd rather keep buried: the screams, the fire, the smell of burning flesh.
He tightened his grip on the burlap sack slung over his shoulder and started back toward the shack he and Elira called home. If he was lucky, she'd still be asleep. If he was unlucky, well…
The sound of coughing greeted him before he reached the door.
"Elira?" he called, pushing it open.
The inside of the shack was dim, lit only by the faint glow of embers in the hearth. Elira was sitting up in bed, her small frame wrapped in blankets too thin to keep out the chill. Her cheeks were flushed, her breaths shallow.
"Darian," she rasped, her voice barely a whisper. "Did you find anything?"
He forced a smile, though it felt like a knife twisting in his gut. "Not yet," he said, kneeling beside her. "But I'm heading back out soon. Just wanted to check on you."
She reached out, her hand trembling. He took it in his own, the heat of her fever radiating through his skin.
"You don't have to lie," she said softly. "I know there's nothing left."
"Don't say that," he said, his voice sharper than he intended. He softened when he saw her flinch. "I'll figure something out. I always do, don't I?"
Elira didn't respond. She leaned back against the threadbare pillow, her eyes half-closed.
"Darian," she murmured after a moment. "Do you ever think about them?"
He didn't need to ask who she meant. Their parents, taken years ago by one of the many plagues that swept through the land like a scythe. He had been barely sixteen, Elira only ten. The memory of digging their graves with his bare hands was etched into his mind, as vivid as the day it happened.
"Sometimes," he admitted, though the truth was all the time. "But it doesn't change anything. They're gone."
Elira was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "I dreamed about Mother last night. She was smiling. She said she was waiting for us."
Darian's chest tightened. "Don't talk like that," he said. "You're not going anywhere."
She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. There was something in them—resignation, maybe, or peace. He couldn't stand it.
"I'll be back," he said, standing abruptly. "You just rest."
He didn't wait for her reply. The door slammed shut behind him, and he took a deep breath, trying to push down the rising tide of panic. Elira was all he had left. He couldn't lose her too.
The throne room of Castle Veldrin was quiet, save for the steady drip of water from a cracked ceiling. The torches lining the stone walls flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the chamber. King Theoden sat slumped on his throne, his crown tilted slightly on his head.
The great oak doors groaned as they opened, and two soldiers entered, dragging something behind them. The king straightened, his hand tightening around the armrest.
"What is this?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.
"From the southern border, Your Grace," one of the soldiers said, bowing low. "A scout. Or what's left of him."
They dropped the body onto the cold stone floor. The man's armor was rusted, his face barely recognizable beneath the mass of flowers blooming from his flesh. Vines curled around his limbs, their leaves vibrant and green against the pallor of his skin.
Theoden rose to his feet, his face pale. "By the gods…"
"It's spreading," the soldier continued. "Faster than we can track it. Villages disappearing overnight. Crops turning to dust. The men are afraid to go near it."
"Cowards," spat one of the ministers, stepping forward. He was a stout man with a face like a boiled beet. "It's nothing more than a plague. We've faced worse."
"Worse?" said another, his tone incredulous. "You call this normal?" He gestured to the body. "This isn't disease. This is something else."
Theoden's gaze shifted to the man standing at the edge of the room, silent and still as a shadow. Scholar Luthain, his trusted advisor, stepped forward.
"Your Grace," Luthain said, his voice smooth as silk. "We have spoken of this before. The Eterna Tree is at the heart of it. Its influence reaches further with each passing day."
The ministers erupted into a cacophony of objections.
"Superstition!" one shouted.
"Blasphemy!" cried another.
"Enough!" Theoden's voice cut through the noise like a blade. The ministers fell silent, their faces pale.
The king turned to Luthain, his expression grim. "You're certain of this?"
"As certain as one can be," Luthain replied. "The tree is no mere legend, Your Grace. Its roots touch every corner of this world—and beyond. If we do not act, its power will consume us all."
Theoden sank back onto his throne, his head in his hands. The weight of the crown seemed heavier than ever.
Darian pulled his threadbare cloak tighter as the cold bit through his layers. The narrow dirt path to the village was lined with skeletal trees, their branches clawing at the gray sky. His boots crunched over frost-coated leaves, each step stirring up faint wisps of mist that clung to the earth like a ghostly veil.
The village of Emberwich was less than an hour's walk from the shack he called home. It wasn't much—just a huddle of cottages, a decrepit chapel, and a market square that barely deserved the name—but it was the closest thing to civilization in these parts. If there was anything to be had—medicine, food, anything—he'd find it there.
Or so he hoped.
As he approached, the first thing that hit him was the smell: a rancid mix of sweat, rotting wood, and something worse that he didn't want to name. The village had always been poor, but the last few years had turned it into something barely clinging to life.
The main square was almost empty, save for a handful of traders and beggars huddled around a pitiful fire. A butcher hacked at a carcass that looked more bone than meat, his cleaver falling with dull, rhythmic thuds.
Darian adjusted his hood, keeping his face shadowed. People here were desperate, and desperation bred suspicion. He couldn't afford trouble—not when Elira was waiting for him.
He approached a stall where an old woman sat behind a table laden with jars of dubious-looking herbs. Her face was a map of wrinkles, her eyes sharp and shrewd.
"Good day," Darian said, his voice low.
The woman snorted. "Ain't no such thing as a good day," she said. "What do you want?"
"My sister," he said, leaning in. "She's fevered. Weak. I need something to help her."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Got coin?"
Darian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch. He tipped it into his hand, revealing a few tarnished coppers.
The woman eyed the coins, then spat on the ground. "Not enough," she said. "Come back when you've got silver, or don't come back at all."
"Please," Darian said, his voice tight. "She's dying."
"Everyone's dying," the woman snapped. "Why should I care about your sister?"
Darian opened his mouth to argue, but a voice interrupted him.
"You looking for medicine?"
He turned to see a man leaning against the wall of a nearby building, his face hidden by the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. The man's coat was patched and dirty, but his boots were sturdy, and there was a glint of steel at his belt.
"Depends," Darian said cautiously.
The man stepped closer, his movements fluid and predatory. "Got something that might help," he said. "But it ain't free."
"I don't have much," Darian admitted.
The man's smile was sharp. "You've got two hands, don't you? I need a pair of hands for a job. You help me, I help you. Simple as that."
"What kind of job?"
The man gestured for Darian to follow. Against his better judgment, Darian did. They stopped at the edge of the square, near a cart piled high with sacks of grain.
"See that?" the man said, nodding toward the cart. "That's mine. Or it would be if it weren't for that bastard Roderick claiming it first."
Darian frowned. "You want me to steal it?"
"Think of it as reclaiming," the man said. "Roderick doesn't need it. He's got enough stored away to feed an army. Your sister, on the other hand…"
Darian hesitated. Stealing from Roderick was asking for trouble. The man was one of the village's self-appointed enforcers, and he didn't take kindly to people crossing him.
But Elira's face flashed in his mind—pale and fevered, her breaths shallow and labored.
"Fine," he said.
The man grinned. "That's the spirit. Meet me back here after dark. We'll take care of it then."
Night fell like a shroud, the village plunging into shadow. Darian stood in the alley, his heart pounding as he watched the man from earlier crouch near the cart.
"Keep watch," the man whispered.
Darian nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife. He scanned the square, his nerves on edge. Every creak of wood, every rustle of leaves set his teeth on edge.
The man worked quickly, slicing through the ropes securing the sacks. He hoisted one over his shoulder, then another.
"Hurry up," Darian hissed.
"I'm going as fast as I can," the man muttered.
A shout rang out, shattering the quiet.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
Darian turned to see a figure rushing toward them, a lantern swinging in one hand and a club in the other.
"Run!" the man barked, dropping the sacks and bolting into the shadows.
Darian hesitated for a split second before following. The lantern's light danced wildly as the villager gave chase, his shouts echoing through the square.
Darian's lungs burned as he sprinted down a narrow alley, his boots slipping on the icy cobblestones. He ducked under a low-hanging beam, his heart hammering in his chest.
He didn't stop until he was sure he'd lost his pursuer. Gasping for breath, he leaned against a wall and closed his eyes.
"Coward," he muttered, thinking of the man who had roped him into this mess and then abandoned him.
But he had more pressing concerns. He hadn't gotten the grain—or the medicine. He'd wasted precious time and risked his neck for nothing.