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The four of them set off across the rough paths under the dim moonlight, their long shadows stretching across the ground. The silence of the night was broken only by the sound of hooves, the creaking of saddles, and the howling of the cold wind that reminded them of the epidemic awaiting them. Silas, despite his weakness, held tightly to his horse's reins, determined to endure.
The journey lasted for long hours, with the stars sparkling in the sky like eyes watching them. Slowly, the darkness began to fade, and the first rays of dawn crept from behind the eastern horizon. The blackness turned into deep blue, then into shades of pink and orange, announcing the rise of a new day.
When the sun rose a little higher, the wide plains of the Kingdom of Arcadius appeared in the distance. They seemed quiet from afar, but Reishel and Michael knew that this calm was only a mask hiding chaos and despair.
As they approached the kingdom's walls, the signs of disaster became clearer. At the main gate, the guards stood with pale faces and empty eyes, barely raising their heads to greet them. Inside the kingdom, the scene was painful. Streets that were once full of life had become empty, except for some bodies lying on the sidewalks covered with worn cloth. From the open windows came the groans of the sick and their intermittent coughing. The smell of illness—a mix of sweat, blood, and despair—filled the air. There were no peasants in the fields, no laughter of children. A heavy silence hung over the place.
Ashton: "Why didn't you tell me the sickness had reached this level?"
Reishel: "I told you, but you didn't listen…"
Ashton: "Fine… where is the city of Kaldor, where the sickness first spread?"
Reishel: "We'll go to the capital first. There's someone I want to treat before anything else."
It wasn't long before they arrived at the capital. From a distance, Emily was standing at the entrance of one of the buildings that had been turned into a quarantine center. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep and fear. When she saw Reishel, she rushed toward him with stumbling steps.
Emily (in a barely audible voice, her eyes filling with tears): "Young master! You're back!… The situation… it's worse than you can imagine."
Reishel (quickly getting off his horse): "Emily, what happened?"
Emily (with a trembling voice): "The sickness… it's spreading like wildfire. No one was spared—not even the guards… or the palace servants."
At that moment, Warner appeared, running toward them with a frightened face, barely able to catch his breath.
Warner (panting, his eyes wide): "My lord! You've returned! You must come quickly!"
Reishel (worried): "What is it, Warner?"
Warner (in an exhausted voice): "Harlo… Harlo's condition is getting much worse! The bleeding has intensified and the doctors… they don't know what to do! They say… it's only a matter of time!"
Reishel, Michael, Silas, and Ashton rushed behind Warner, passing through narrow hallways filled with the sick. The atmosphere was suffocating—cries of pain and groans of weakness filled the place. They saw dozens of exhausted bodies lying on simple beds or even on the floor. Their faces were pale, the signs of sickness clear on their bodies. Some coughed up blood, others shook from fever, while the eyes of some stared blankly, lifeless.
They reached a larger room that had been set aside for the most critical cases. In the center, lying on one of the beds, was Harlo. His face was pale like death, his lips blue, and his eyes sunken. Bloodstains covered his white robe, indicating unstoppable internal bleeding. Three doctors stood around him, their faces full of despair, able only to shake their heads.
Reishel (in a choked voice, rushing to Harlo): "Master! Harlo!… I brought the doctor!"
Harlo (in a weak voice, opening his eyes with difficulty): "My lord… welcome back… (coughs hard, blood spraying from his mouth)"
One of the doctors (in a low voice): "It's no use, Your Majesty. We did all we could. The sickness has taken over."
Ashton (steps forward calmly, pushing the doctors aside with a firm look, kneels beside Harlo, placing his hand on his forehead, then checks his pulse): "Step back."
He looks deeply at Harlo, then at the blood around him: "The bleeding is severe. The spirit is deteriorating quickly."
Romiiel (flying above Harlo, caws softly): "This man… the mark of the sickness is very strong on him… perhaps he was close to the source of the epidemic."
Michael (looking at Ashton with worry): "Can you do anything, Mr. Williamson? His condition is very bad."
Ashton (pulls herbs and bottles from his bag, a serious look on his face): "I can't promise healing, but I'll try."
He took a small blood sample from Harlo using a thin needle, then placed it under a small lamp, staring at it intently as if it held the key to the mystery.
Ashton began preparing a new mixture, carefully combining glowing liquids and dried herbs, his eyes constantly watching Harlo with concern. He knew this was his only chance and that every step needed to be precise.
After a few moments of intense focus, he held a small bottle containing a dark green liquid, inserted a needle into the bottle, and drew a small amount.
He inserted the needle into Harlo's arm and slowly injected the liquid. Everyone held their breath, watching in silence mixed with anticipation. Moments passed, and it seemed something was changing. Harlo's breathing became less strained, and his face looked slightly less pale. Everyone sighed in relief. Ashton wiped the sweat from his forehead and breathed easier, as if the first danger had passed. They were all pleased with what they saw—finally, a spark of hope had appeared.
A few minutes passed with everyone gathered around Harlo, but… suddenly, Silas, who was standing with them, coughed violently. Everyone rushed toward him to see blood pouring heavily from his mouth—more than what they had seen in the cabin.
Silas (in a broken voice): "No… I can't…"
Ashton (shocked, running to Silas): "Impossible! I stopped it!"
At that moment, Harlo also began to cough violently, and the bleeding returned, stronger and more brutal than before. His eyes widened, as if he was seeing something no one else could.
Ashton (in a trembling voice, stepping back): "No… it can't be! Did I fail?"
The raven (flapping his wings anxiously, flying around Ashton): "Ashton! Calm down! You must stay calm!"
Harlo (in a fading voice, reaching out toward Reishel): "My lord… My lord…"
Harlo's breathing had become shallow and broken. Each cough shook his frail body, followed by drops of blood staining his lips. His once-strong hand lifted with great effort toward Reishel, his fingers trembling as if holding on to the last thread of life. His eyes, once full of strength and courage, lost focus, staring into the distance as if seeing something beyond this world. His voice, once commanding, had become a whisper barely heard, trying to utter his final words. Every breath was a battle, and every exhale felt like a farewell. These moments, though short, felt eternal as everyone watched in painful silence, helpless to do anything but wait—until, with one final violent cough, blood gushed more than ever before. The life in his eyes faded slowly. His hand stopped trembling, his gaze froze, and his arm dropped to the ground, announcing the end of his journey.
A dreadful silence fell over the room. Only the moans of the sick could be heard, mixing with the heavy silence left behind by Harlo's departure. Reishel, whose hand had just released Harlo's cold fingers, felt a harsh chill run through his body—the chill of the emptiness forming in his soul, His eyes widened in shock, as if trying to comprehend the impossible scene before him. Then, tears began to well up, glistening for a brief moment before streaming down his cheeks—hot rivers that burned his face.
Reishel (in a trembling voice that turns into a heart-wrenching scream echoing across the room, as if mirroring the emptiness in his soul):
"Nooooooooooooooo! Master! Don't leave me! Don't leave me!"
Reishel broke down into a hysterical fit of screaming, calling Harlow's name over and over again, shaking his body in vain, as if trying to wake him from the sleep of death. His fists pounded the ground wildly, then gripped Harlow's shirt tightly, as if refusing to let him go. His tears mixed with the dried blood on the pillow, turning his face into a mask of despair and pain.
Michael, Emily, and Warner, who had stood frozen in shock, rushed toward him, trying to calm him down. They placed their hands on his shoulders, attempting to pull him away from Harlow's body. But the shock of losing his mentor—who had been like a father and guide—was too much for a boy his age.
His body trembled violently, his sobs were ragged, as if he were drowning in a sea of grief, seeing nothing but the absolute darkness that had swallowed his light.
Suddenly... as Reishel screamed and wept, in the peak of his hysteria, a sudden violent cough burst from his chest. It wasn't just a reflex—it was deep and painful, as if tearing through his insides. He instinctively placed his hand over his mouth, and when he pulled it away, it was smeared with bright crimson blood that stood out starkly against his pale skin.
His young eyes widened in absolute terror—not just at the blood, but at the realization of what it meant. The scream faded from his throat. His face froze in a mixture of fear and pain. Then, his frail body collapsed, falling to the ground unconscious.
His head landed on the very pillow that had cradled Harlow's just moments before, as if binding them in a final tragic farewell.
Chaos erupted in the room like never before. Emily's scream—calling his name—was torn with horror and despair, ripping through the air.
Michael, who had just been trying to calm Reishel, rushed to him in a frenzy, dropping to his knees beside him, searching for a pulse on his neck.
Warner, usually calm and composed, ran toward the door like a madman to fetch water or anything that could help, but his steps were stumbling, as if he'd lost all sense of direction.
Romiiel, the raven, who had been fluttering wildly above their heads, no longer knew what to do. His flapping became erratic, reflecting the chaos around him.
Ashton, still standing beside Silas, was frozen in place, his eyes fixed on the horrifying scene before him. He saw Silas bleeding… Harlow dead… and now Reishel…
His mind spiraled into confusion, and he began to scream in madness—screams more unhinged than Reishel's, screams of a man who had lost everything, watching his world collapse piece by piece.
Ashton (in a distorted voice, clutching his head with both hands, as if trying to keep his mind from shattering):
"No!... Not him too!... This can't be happening!"
(He turned to the raven, screaming hoarsely with despair:)
"Romiiel!... Do something! Stop flapping those cursed wings and help me!"
The raven, Romiiel, who had been flying anxiously around Ashton, suddenly stopped his frantic flapping.
It was as if Ashton's words had pierced through some deep silence.
He descended slowly to the ground, more like something heavy had pressed him down. Then he lifted his head, and his eyes—once filled with fear—began to glow with a radiant light, a light not of this world.
A golden aura began to shine from him, growing stronger with each heartbeat, until it filled the entire room, driving out the shadows and turning the somber atmosphere into a blinding brilliance.
The light was so intense it seemed to burn the air itself, stinging the eyes and forcing everyone to shut them tightly to avoid going blind.
A sharp heat spread throughout the room—not painful, but overwhelming—accompanied by a faint whisper, like a thousand souls breathing in unison.
As the light gradually faded, leaving behind a trembling, gentle glow, everyone slowly opened their eyes in cautious disbelief.
And the second shock hit them—no less powerful than the first.
The raven was gone.
In his place stood a young man, slender, bearing an uncanny resemblance to King Reishel in his delicate features, but older by a few years—perhaps four.
His hair was pitch-black, cascading down his shoulders, and his eyes were the color of pure gold, gleaming with sharp intelligence and deep concern.
He was dressed entirely in black, matching his hair.
The raven—or rather, the boy, Romiiel—said nothing.
He rushed immediately to the unconscious Reishel lying on the ground, completely ignoring the stunned and shocked stares directed at him.
He knelt beside him urgently and placed his hand on his small chest, over the area where the bloody cough had erupted.
His hand began to glow with a soft golden light—similar to the one he had radiated moments before, but more focused and intimate, as if he were trying to draw out the illness from his body, absorbing the pain and weakness, and pushing life back into his weary veins.
His golden eyes remained fixed on Reishel's pale face, filled with utter concentration and desperate hope—as if he were battling death itself for the boy's soul, in a silent war between life and death… despair and hope…
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