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.
Darian let out a frustrated growl, slamming his fist into the dirt. "Damn this cursed land. Nothing grows anymore. Nothing worth a damn." He pulled his knife—a jagged shard of metal—from his belt and jammed it into the ground, watching it wobble like a mocking specter of what little strength he had left. "Might as well be fighting ghosts."
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 reached him before he even touched the door.
"Elira?" Darian's voice wavered. He pushed inside, bracing himself.
The shack was dim, save for the faint orange glow of dying embers in the hearth. Elira sat up on the cot, her slight frame swamped in blankets too thin to keep out the chill. Her face was pale, save for two flushed patches high on her cheeks. She looked up, eyes glassy but bright. "Darian... Did you find anything?"
He forced a smile, shaking his head. "Not yet. Just... need to check another spot."
She frowned, disappointment flickering across her face. "You're good at this. You always find something."
Darian knelt beside her, taking her hand. It was too warm, fever burning beneath fragile skin. He squeezed it gently. "Not always. But I'm not done yet."
Her fingers tightened weakly around his. "You can't keep going out like this. It's too dangerous."
"I can handle it."
"Darian," she said softly, her voice strained but firm. "I'm serious. You're wearing yourself out. And... I'll get better. I just need rest."
A coughing fit seized her mid-sentence, her body convulsing with each ragged breath. Darian grabbed a cloth and pressed it to her lips, trying not to wince when he saw the bright flecks of blood. She slumped back, exhausted, her breathing shallow but steady.
"Elira," he murmured, wiping her mouth. "This isn't rest. It's—" His throat closed up, words failing him.
"It's what it is." Her voice was barely a whisper. "You don't have to pretend."
He looked away, the weight in his chest growing heavier. "I'm not pretending."
She smiled faintly, but her eyes were tired. "You always do. Ever since... you know."
"I'm not losing you." The words came out hard, almost angry.
"You won't." She coughed again, weaker this time. "I'll be here. For a while."
"That's not enough."
"It has to be."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound the crackling of the hearth. Darian reached for a jar on the nearby shelf and opened it, revealing dried leaves. He crushed some between his fingers and sprinkled them into a cup.
"Mint," he said, forcing a casual tone. "Remember the first time you made tea with this? You thought it was magic."
"It tasted like dirt."
"You didn't let it steep long enough."
"You said it would cure anything."
"It might." Darian handed her the cup, his hand lingering on hers for a moment longer than usual. "Drink."
Elira took a small sip, her thin fingers trembling around the chipped ceramic. A cough wracked her frail body, but she managed to keep the tea down. She leaned back against the cot, her expression softening. "You should have been a healer."
"I'm just a scavenger," Darian replied, his voice low.
"No." She shook her head, her gaze steady despite the fever burning behind it. "You're more than that. You could be a great herbalist. Better than the ones back in the village."
He tried to smile, but something about her words—her tone—gnawed at him. As he reached to tuck the blankets more securely around her, his hand brushed against her collarbone. Elira flinched, her face tightening in discomfort.
Darian froze. His eyes narrowed as he pulled the blanket back just slightly. Beneath the loose neckline of her shirt, angry crimson blisters crawled along her skin, starting at her neck and spreading down toward her chest. They looked raw, painful to the touch, and a faint metallic scent hung in the air.
"Elira..." His voice cracked. "What is this?"
She pulled the blanket tighter, turning her face away. "It's nothing."
"Don't," he said, more sharply than he intended. He reached out again, his fingers hovering over the discolored skin. "How long have these been here?"
"It's just a rash," she insisted, her voice trembling. "You don't have to worry."
Darian sat back, his breath catching in his throat as realization dawned. His stomach twisted into a knot. "This... this is the plague, isn't it?"
Elira's silence was answer enough. She looked down, her lips pressed into a thin line. "It's not as bad as it looks," she said softly. "I'm fine."
"Fine?" His voice rose, a mix of fear and anger. "Elira, this—this isn't something you can just hide!"
"I didn't want you to worry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You already do so much."
Darian stared at her, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to shout, to rage at her for keeping this from him, but all he could feel was a deep, suffocating fear.
He stood abruptly, pacing to the other side of the room. "It can be cured," he said, more to himself than to her. "There's got to be medicine somewhere. Someone who can help—"
"Darian." Elira's voice was calm, but the weariness in it cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You know as well as I do. The plague doesn't have a cure."
"Stop." He turned back to her, his eyes burning. "Don't say that. Don't—" His voice broke, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep himself together. "I'll find something. I will."
"Darian," she said again, her tone soft but firm. "You can't keep chasing miracles."
"I have to," he said, his fists clenching at his sides. "For you."
She gave him a small, knowing smile, the kind that was meant to reassure but only made his chest ache more. "Promise me you won't go too far. Don't put yourself in danger."
"I promise," he lied, his voice barely audible.
Elira's smile lingered, but she didn't argue. "Be safe."
"I will," he said, his words hollow.
Darian turned and headed for the door, pausing for a brief moment before stepping into the cold, ash-laden air. He closed the door gently behind him, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night.
The chill bit into his skin, but he barely felt it. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he stared out at the dark, desolate landscape.
There had to be something out there. Something he hadn't found yet. Something to save her.
There had to be.
Far from the quiet chamber where his personal turmoil brewed, another struggle played out. One of kingdoms and curses, of shadows and despair.
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 of Eldralore, 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 seashore, Your Grace," one of the soldiers said, bowing low. "A scout. Or what's left of him."
With a dull thud, they dropped the body onto the cold stone floor. The sight sent a ripple of unease through the chamber. The man's form was grotesque—his upper torso fused with the elongated, scaly head of a fish, its gaping mouth frozen in an eternal scream. Small, insect-like legs jutted from his thighs, twitching unnaturally even in death. His lower half was a mass of coral growths, jagged and vivid, while patches of slimy algae clung to what remained of his skin, an unnatural amalgam of sea and land life.
Theoden rose to his feet, his face pale. "By the gods…"
Ministers' Debate on the Mystical Phenomenon
The chamber buzzed with frantic murmurs as ministers gathered, their faces etched with alarm. Uneasy glances darted between the grotesque body and King Theoden, their confusion palpable. Whispers of sorcery, curses, and divine wrath swirled among them like an unseen storm.
Finally, one stepped forward, a stout man with a ruddy face, his expression twisted with scorn. He jabbed a finger at the others, his booming voice cutting through the din. "Cowards, the lot of you! It's nothing more than a plague. We've faced worse—famines, droughts, pestilence. This is no different."
"Worse?" snapped another, a wiry minister whose hands trembled despite his venomous tone. "You call this worse?" He gestured sharply toward the corpse, his finger quivering. "That's no plague. That's blasphemy! The gods themselves would shudder at such a creation! This is not of our world."
A third minister, draped in ceremonial robes, stepped forward, his voice quavering with barely suppressed panic. "The coastal villages reported strange sightings before this… thing appeared. Lights beneath the water, shadows that moved against the tide. And now this? What if the seas themselves are turning against us?"
The stout minister scoffed, folding his arms. "Superstitions and fishermen's tales! We waste time chasing phantoms instead of acting."
"Acting how?" the wiry minister fired back, his voice rising like the toll of a warning bell. "Our kingdom is already in ruins! The plague and endless disasters have killed our land, turned it into ash and bone. If we don't find a way to reprimand and rebuild instead of pointing to useless matters, then maybe the Kingdom of Burgundy will seize our land and call it theirs!"
"Enough!" Theoden's voice cut through the escalating din, sharp and commanding, a sound that demanded immediate obedience. The ministers fell silent, their eyes darting toward the king. The chamber grew still, the oppressive weight of unease settling over all.
Theoden turned, his gaze falling on a lone figure standing near the edge of the room. Scholar Luthain, his most trusted advisor, stepped forward with the measured composure of a man who carried the weight of centuries of wisdom. Draped in dark robes, the flickering torchlight played across his deeply lined face and silver beard, lending him an almost spectral air.
"Luthain," Theoden said, his tone edged with urgency. "You've heard their debates. What do you make of this… thing?"
Luthain inclined his head, his movements deliberate. When he spoke, his voice carried the gravitas of a seasoned sage. "Your Grace, this is no ordinary phenomenon. It is precisely what I have warned of before—the work of No Man's Land."
The room erupted at once.
"That island is a myth!" one minister barked, slamming a fist against the table.
"Blasphemy! Do you seek to spread panic among the people?" another accused, his voice trembling with indignation.
Luthain raised a hand, the gesture commanding instant silence. His sharp, sunken eyes locked onto Theoden's, unyielding. "We have spoken of this before, Your Grace. The island is no myth. What you see before you is proof. This grotesque amalgamation is no act of nature."
Theoden's jaw tightened, his gaze shifting to the twisted corpse sprawled before the council. Its warped form—a terrifying fusion of human and oceanic features—seemed to mock all natural order. "You're certain of this, Luthain?"
The old scholar stepped closer, leaning on his gnarled staff. "As certain as one can be," he replied, his voice low but resolute. "We have sent countless search parties, yet none returned—until now. This wretched soul's fate is evidence enough. If we do not act, Eldradore—and perhaps all of humanity—will face annihilation."
The chamber dissolved into chaos, a cacophony of angry voices clashing with the scrape of chairs and the thud of fists against the ancient oak table.
"You sent men into peril without the council's knowledge?" one minister bellowed, his face flushed with fury and fear. "Such actions verge on treason!"
Luthain remained unperturbed, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. "And what would you have me do? Stand idle while our kingdom decays?" He gestured toward the corpse. "You all see the blight that creeps over our land. Should I have waited for your endless debates while our people suffer?"
His eyes glinted as he leaned forward, his cane tapping against the stone floor for emphasis. "The prophecy of Eldros foretells that this island holds the key to our salvation. What lies within may be our only chance to stave off ruin."
"You defy the council's authority!" another minister shouted, though his voice wavered.
Luthain straightened, his presence commanding as he surveyed the room. "I act not out of defiance, but necessity. The king himself sanctioned my actions." He turned to Theoden, bowing slightly. "For I serve not the whims of quarrelsome lords, but the will of Eldradore and its people."
"This is folly!" another voice muttered, low but heavy with doubt. The words hung in the air like a funeral dirge.
Luthain's gaze snapped to the speaker, his voice colder now. "Folly? Is it folly to grasp at hope when despair encroaches from all sides? Would you have us sit idle, hands clasped in prayer, as our realm crumbles to dust? This creature is not merely a warning—it is a harbinger. The time for action is upon us, whether you embrace it or not."
Theoden sank back into his throne, his shoulders heavy with the burdens of kingship. The flickering torchlight threw restless shadows upon the walls, the grotesque form of the corpse at his feet casting long, gnarled shapes that seemed to claw at the chamber's stone. He closed his eyes briefly, his hand gripping the gilded armrest as if seeking an answer within its ancient carvings.
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, one of the coastal settlements in Eldralore, lay less than an hour's walk from the shack he called home. It wasn't much—just a cluster of weathered cottages, a crumbling chapel, and a market square that hardly lived up to its name—but it was the closest thing to civilization in these desolate parts. If there was anything to be found, 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's shoulders sagged as he turned away from the stall, bitterness clawing at his insides. The frost-bitten square seemed emptier now, the distant sounds of the butcher's cleaver echoing like a death knell. He had nothing—not enough coin, not enough hope.
As he walked past the tavern at the edge of the square, a voice called out from the shadows.
"Darian?"
He stopped, heart stuttering in his chest. Slowly, he turned to see a man stepping forward from the doorway, his face illuminated by the flickering lantern above.
Elias.
Darian blinked, the familiar face stirring a mix of emotions he couldn't quite name. Elias had left Emberwich years ago, chasing work in the southern towns. Now, he looked older, worn down by time—but his eyes still carried that same warmth.
"I thought it was you," Elias said, a smile breaking through the lines on his face. "Come here, lad. Sit with me."
Reluctantly, Darian followed him to a nearby bench, sitting with a sigh. The cold seeped through the wood, but Elias's presence was oddly grounding.
"How's life treating you?" Elias asked. "And your sister?"
Darian clenched his fists in his lap. The weight of the question pressed down on him. "She's not well. Fever. Weakness." His voice was flat, drained of feeling.
Elias's face darkened with concern. "I'm sorry to hear that. Look, if you need anything—coin, food, herbs—I can help."
Darian shook his head, the refusal instinctive. "We'll manage."
"Darian…" Elias's tone was gentle but firm. "I know pride runs deep in you, but sometimes you have to let people in."
"I said no," Darian snapped, harsher than he intended. He exhaled slowly, fighting to steady his nerves. "Thanks, but it's my problem to solve."
Elias watched him for a long moment, then gave a small nod. "Alright. Just know the offer stands. I'm staying in the village a few more days. If you change your mind…"
"I won't." Darian rose, tugging his hood lower. "Take care of yourself, Elias."
"And you take care of her," Elias called after him, his voice carrying softly through the cold night.
Darian didn't look back. His mind was already spinning, searching for solutions, for anything that could pull Elira back from the brink. But Elias's words lingered, a reminder of what he couldn't afford to accept.
Darian walked away, the weight of Elias's offer pressing against his thoughts like an unwelcome guest. The cold air bit at his cheeks, but he barely felt it. Help was a luxury he couldn't afford to accept—not when the cost was his pride, his autonomy. Elira needed him to be strong, to find a way. Alone.
As he rounded the corner of the market square, his eyes scanned the dwindling stalls, each one a bleak reminder of how little Emberwich had to offer. The scent of burning wood and damp earth clung to the air, mingling with the faint tang of blood from the butcher's block.
That's when he saw him—a man leaning against a crumbling wall, his posture relaxed but watchful. The man's coat was patched and frayed, but his eyes gleamed with sharp intent beneath the brim of a wide, battered hat.
"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.