The cottage was quiet, the weight of the past days lingering in the air like an oppressive storm. The burial of the woman had left a heavy imprint on both Elysara and Aureth. They had spoken little since then, focusing on their routine tasks, trying to silence the unease growing within them. But the silence of their home did not extend to the village. The whispers had spread like wildfire. Gossip about the strange sickness and dark magic reached every corner, growing with each retelling.
It was late morning when the knock came—a hurried, uneven thumping against the wooden door. Elysara, seated at the table sorting herbs, froze mid-motion. Her grandmother, across the room preparing tinctures, looked up, her sharp gaze meeting Elysara's.
"Who could it be at this hour?" Aureth muttered, setting down the small pestle she had been using.
Elysara wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the door. A cold knot of dread settled in her stomach, growing heavier with every step. She pulled the door open, and there stood a man, swaying on unsteady legs.
He was in his early thirties, his complexion pallid, sweat streaming down his face. His eyes were sunken, dark circles framing them, and his hand clutched at his temple as if trying to physically suppress a pounding pain. The other hand scratched at his neck, leaving angry red streaks on his already irritated skin.
"Please," the man rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, "help me. Something's wrong."
Aureth came to the doorway, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "What's happening to you?"
The man groaned, leaning heavily against the frame. "It's my head—it feels like it's going to split open. And my skin…" He scratched furiously at his arm, revealing blotches of raw, irritated flesh beneath the torn fabric of his sleeve. "It itches—burns."
"Come in," Aureth commanded, her voice steady but tinged with urgency. "Quickly, before you collapse."
They guided him to a chair near the hearth, his legs barely supporting him. Elysara fetched a damp cloth and pressed it to his forehead, her fingers trembling as she felt the heat radiating from his feverish skin.
"It's just a headache," she murmured, more to herself than to him. She didn't want to admit the truth looming in her mind.
Aureth ignored her, already moving with practiced efficiency. She knelt by the man, inspecting his blotches, her fingers tracing the edges of the inflamed skin. "No," she said grimly, "this is more than that."
As the afternoon stretched on, the man's condition spiraled downward. The red blotches spread, rising into swollen, pus-filled bumps that covered his arms and neck. His breathing grew labored, his chest heaving with effort.
Aureth and Elysara worked tirelessly, grinding herbs and preparing salves. Aureth mixed a potent brew of feverfew and bitterroot, chanting softly as she stirred the dark liquid, her voice steady and commanding. Elysara hovered nearby, wringing her hands as she handed over tools and ingredients, her anxiety growing with each passing minute.
Despite their efforts, the man's fever climbed higher, his body trembling violently as he writhed in pain. By early evening, his skin had taken on a sickly green hue, the discoloration spreading like poison through his veins.
Elysara wiped his brow, her own hands shaking as she watched the transformation. "Grandmother… it's just like before," she whispered, the memory of the woman's death still fresh in her mind.
"I know," Aureth replied, her voice heavy with unspoken dread. She placed her hand on the man's chest, muttering an incantation meant to stabilize his heartbeat. For a moment, his breathing slowed, but the respite was brief. A violent coughing fit overtook him, thick, dark blood spewing from his mouth.
"Elysara!" Aureth barked. "More clean cloths, quickly!"
Elysara scrambled to obey, grabbing the stack of linens from a shelf. As she handed them to her grandmother, the man let out a guttural scream, his body convulsing violently. The cloths did little to stem the flow of blood as it poured from his mouth and nose.
Night had fallen by the time his body gave its final shudder. Despite their unrelenting efforts, despite the hours of potions and spells, the sickness consumed him completely. His head lolled to the side, his glassy eyes staring into nothingness.
Elysara sank into a chair, exhaustion and despair crashing over her. "We couldn't save him," she whispered, her voice cracking.
Aureth stood, her expression grim as she covered the man's body with a sheet. "No. Whatever this is, it's stronger than we are." She paused, her gaze fixed on the lifeless figure. "And it's spreading."
Only then did they notice the faint murmurs outside the cottage. Elysara moved to the window and peered through the thin curtain. A small crowd of villagers had gathered, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns. Some looked on with concern, but others whispered and gestured animatedly, their expressions a mixture of fear and suspicion.
"They've been watching," Elysara said quietly, her stomach twisting.
Aureth sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Let them gossip. We have more important matters to tend to."
The next morning, Aureth and Elysara prepared the man's body for burial. They worked in silence, their movements efficient and reverent. They cleansed his skin with a mixture of lavender and rosemary water, masking the lingering scent of sickness. Aureth tied his hands gently over his chest and placed a small sprig of moonlace—a symbol of rest and purification—beside him.
When the preparations were complete, they wrapped the body in linen and carried him out of the cottage. The villagers were still gathered, their numbers having grown overnight. They whispered and pointed as Elysara and her grandmother passed, their words like a low hum in the air.
Elysara kept her gaze fixed ahead, her jaw tight as she resisted the urge to respond. Her grandmother's steady presence beside her was the only thing keeping her grounded.
At the edge of the village, they buried the man in a small clearing under a towering oak. Aureth performed the burial rites, her voice low and firm as she chanted incantations to guide his spirit to rest. Elysara scattered a circle of salt around the grave, a protective ward against any lingering darkness.
When the rites were complete, they stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the loss settling over them.
"This is far from over," Aureth said quietly, her voice heavy with foreboding.