The sickness spread quickly, far beyond their village, infecting even the most mystical of creatures. Over the next few weeks, word traveled fast—first across the neighboring villages, then to distant towns and forests. It wasn't only witches who were dying.
Unseen for centuries, the majestic winged gryphons were found dead in the valleys, their feathers matted with greenish blotches. Elders whispered that gryphons had always been tied to the magic of the land. If they could fall ill, what else might be affected?
Forest-born creatures like the nyrren, agile beings of living shadows, were found motionless in the glades, their once-sleek fur now matted and discolored. These creatures, capable of melding with the magic of the forest, had always been considered a symbol of nature's enduring strength. The fact that they were dying set the people of Eldoria on edge. The sickness was unlike anything they had known.
The beastly manticores, known for their strength and resilience, were no exception. Farmers discovered them, once powerful and noble, lying in fields with the same strange markings—rashes slowly consuming their bodies. Their powerful roars had turned to gurgling coughs as they breathed their last, further fueling the growing panic among the villagers.
Elysara and Aureth worked tirelessly, their knowledge of the natural world providing the only hope for the afflicted. The first stage of the disease—the slow-spreading rash that began at the back of the neck—was visible even in the creatures. The rash would appear small at first but would eventually spread in patches across the entire body, creeping steadily, undisturbed by the passing of days.
But it wasn't just animals succumbing to the illness. The magic of the kingdom itself was fading, and the people began to feel it, from the smallest farmer to the most skilled mage. The once potent magic that had coursed through Eldoria—its ancient forests, its rivers, and even its people—was weakening.
A healer from a distant village arrived one afternoon, breathless and frantic. "The magic is… is it weakening here too?" she asked, her eyes wide with fear. "It's gone in our village. My spells… they fail. No one can light the torches anymore."
Elysara's heart sank. The magic was integral to their world, linked to every corner of Eldoria, from the forests to the creatures to the very people. The slow decay of magic had long been unspoken but deeply felt. The priestesses no longer invoked the gods' blessings with ease. Spells for healing were met with only partial success. Even the sacred flame in the kingdom's central temple had flickered and faded, a dark omen for all to see.
Rumors began to spread like wildfire. At first, it was whispered that the sickness was a curse—perhaps an ancient punishment for sins long buried. And as the sickness moved through the land, the whispers grew darker. People spoke of a grand, unseen force behind it—a malevolent magic that had been unleashed, one that was devouring the very essence of the kingdom.
"They say the gods are angry," one villager murmured to Elysara as she gathered herbs outside the cottage. "The Veil is weakening, and with it, everything tied to magic."
The Veil. Elysara's heart skipped a beat. She had heard tales of the Veil, the ethereal boundary that separated the realm of mortals from the divine. If the Veil was truly weakening, then perhaps this disease was more than just a sickness. Perhaps it was a sign of a greater catastrophe—a slow unraveling of the very fabric that held their world together.
In the weeks that followed, Elysara witnessed more of the strange and tragic deaths. A group of sylphs, ethereal creatures born of wind and air, were found lifeless in the open fields. Their translucent wings, once shimmering like the sky, had become dull, the beauty of their forms extinguished by the sickness.
One evening, a nightmarish sight met their eyes—a chimera, an ancient being with the body of a lion, the wings of an eagle, and the tail of a serpent, collapsed in the forest. The creature's golden fur was covered in rashes, and its once-glowing eyes had lost their sharp, fiery gleam. Elysara, unable to stop herself, approached cautiously, placing a hand on its side. She could feel its magic, weak and flickering like a dying ember. It was as if the creature's very life force was being drained away, just like the rest of the kingdom.
"We are losing more than lives," Aureth said quietly, watching the chimera. Her voice was filled with the gravity of someone who understood the consequences of such a loss. "The very magic of this world is fading. If we don't act soon, we may not have anything left to save."
As the weeks turned into months, it became clear that the sickness was not just a local malady but a widespread blight—one that was claiming the very essence of their world. The fourth stage of the disease came with an intensity that terrified even the most seasoned healers. Skin turned an unnatural green, and the bodies of the afflicted began to convulse as blood and bile poured from their mouths.
A wyvern, whose wings had carried it high above the tallest mountains, was found gasping for breath, its scales brittle and its mighty wings shredded.
And still, the rumors spread. No longer was it just talk of a curse. There were whispers of something far darker at play. "The Veil," people muttered in fear, "is dying. And when it falls, so will everything tied to it—magic, creatures, our very lives."
Elysara and Aureth worked tirelessly to save who they could, but the increasing number of victims—human and creature alike—left them feeling helpless. With each passing day, the sickness took more lives, drained more magic, and eroded the very fabric of their world.
Even the once-beautiful forest, which had always been teeming with magic, seemed to lose its vibrancy. The trees, once alive with whispers of ancient secrets, now stood silent and hollow. Flowers that had bloomed with every season now withered before they could fully open. The ground, rich with life, seemed to grow colder, as though the land itself was succumbing to the disease.
As Elysara watched the sunset one evening, a growing sense of dread weighed on her chest. The sickness was not just a plague—it was a herald of a deeper, more terrible fate. Something had begun to unravel, and if they didn't find a way to stop it, Eldoria itself would fall into darkness.