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In the Eastern Hall, where echoes of the diplomatic meeting still lingered on the ancient stone walls, Reishel sat at the long table in the council room, his eyes fixed intently on the kingdom's map. Standing before him were his advisor Michael, Krin, and Warner, who was quietly jotting down notes.
Michael, pointing to a mark on the map:
"We cannot trust Skarmoth's movements, even if they offer an alliance. There is something hidden behind their smiles."
Krin, nervously:
"Your Majesty… too much suspicion may tear our ranks apart, but blind trust could open the gates to ruin."
Warner, in a low voice:
"May I speak, my lord? We must make decisive choices now… not delayed reactions."
Before Reishel could respond, the door burst open. Silas entered with heavy steps, holding a small scroll tied with a violet string.
Silas:
"Sire, we've received confirmed news—Prince Sever has not left the borders as he claimed."
Reishel swiftly unrolled the scroll, his eyes glinting with curiosity as he read:
> "Sever is moving from village to village near the border under the guise of hunting… questioning villagers about a strange illness spreading among children and the elderly."
Silas:
"It seems his men are gathering intel on a disease that's spreading there…"
He hadn't finished his sentence when Harlow came rushing down the hallway, waving a tightly stretched report.
Harlow, breathless:
"Medical reports from Kaldor… the villagers are suffering severe symptoms: high fever, nausea, loss of balance, bleeding from the nose and ears! The physicians are baffled—they say they've never seen anything like it!"
Michael:
"This isn't a natural illness… the symptoms suggest something like slow poisoning. We must send a medical team immediately before things get worse. One of us must lead them…"
Reishel, interrupting with firm resolve:
"I will lead the team myself."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The men exchanged uneasy glances.
Harlow, alarmed:
"My lord, this is madness! You're the king—if you leave the palace and get infected, the kingdom will fall into chaos!"
Reishel, calmly but decisively:
"And do you think staying in my lavish palace will heal the sick or feed the starving? The people need to see their king among them… not just hear of him."
That night, Reishel departed for Kaldor, accompanied by Michael, Silas, and several trained physicians. He wore a simple black cloak and a mask covering his nose and mouth. He was no longer the king the people recognized—but an unknown young man, carrying medicinal herbs and holding the hands of ailing children.
Within the village, white tents were raised—fragile hopes amid fallen lives. The ground was soaked with tears and despair. The wind carried the cries of women, and the men's eyes were filled with fear and helplessness. A strange sickness, merciless and unexplained—some called it a curse, others a deadly plague, but no one knew the truth.
A small girl, barely six years old, tugged at his cloak.
The girl, with heartbreaking innocence:
"Are you a doctor too?"
Reishel, with a weary smile:
"No… but I'm learning how to help."
Before his words faded, a scream rang out from the nearby tent. Everyone rushed toward it and found one of the doctors backing away in terror.
The doctor, trembling:
"Our patient… his eyes turned pitch black, and then his body began convulsing. His temperature is rising unnaturally—as if he's burning from the inside… we've never seen anything like this before."
Michael:
"The illness is evolving rapidly… we no longer understand what we're facing."
Harlow, growling:
"Sire, we must return at once! If something happens to you… your father will never forgive us!"
Reishel, with unshaken determination:
"I will not run. If the king is afraid, who will comfort the people?"
He remained among the sick—giving herbs, offering comfort, learning from the doctors. Despite the danger, he did not leave until night's end.
That night, Reishel returned to his palace, exhausted. His steps were heavy, and his face pale. He entered his room where Emily stood by the window. She turned as soon as he entered.
Emily:
"You're late, little sire. Is everything alright?"
Reishel, in a faint voice:
"Not quite… things remain unchanged."
Emily approached him, concern in her eyes:
"You look drained… shall I prepare a warm bath? It might help ease your fatigue."
Reishel stared at her for a moment, then nodded:
"Thank you… I don't know what I'd do without you."
Emily, with a soft smile:
"You'd forget to eat, sleep in your clothes, and leave your papers scattered everywhere."
Reishel, with a faint smile:
"Maybe… maybe I'd even forget that I was once a child."
Emily:
"You are a child, my little king. Even with a crown on your head, don't forget that."
Reishel sat on his bed:
"Do you think I'm doing the right thing… all of this?"
Emily:
"No one has all the answers… but I know your heart—and that's enough for me."
Within minutes, sleep overtook him. He surrendered to the silence of the room, while faraway villages still groaned under the weight of the fever. Doctors wrote urgent reports, and many eyes turned toward the palace… awaiting a decision—or a miracle.
The next day, morning in the village of Kaldor was unlike any morning before.
Despite a faint golden ray brushing the horizon, the village seemed to reject the light, drowning itself in a shroud of gloom. The white tents, hastily erected, stretched like old scars upon the earth—each one whispering a tale that had begun, only to fall silent before it could be told.
From within the tents, the sound of coughing would rise and fade, mingling with intermittent groans, as if the earth itself was groaning under the weight of illness.
Pale faces, frail bodies, and eyes staring into emptiness, as though awaiting a farewell yet to be announced.
Reishel sat in his humble black robe on the ground beside a boy barely seven years old. The child's small body twitched now and then, his eyes half-closed as though wrestling with life itself. Reishel placed his hand on the boy's forehead and felt a searing heat, as if the pain itself coursed through his own veins. He tried to make him drink a spoonful of herbal brew, but the child weakly spat it out—then drifted into unconsciousness, leaving Reishel's heart in pieces.
Reishel lifted his gaze toward the tents and saw the same scene repeating, as if every sick soul shared the same face: pallor, weakness, and pleading eyes. Even the doctors who had come with him—those once proud of their knowledge—now bore eyes betraying defeat. Their tools seemed more ashamed than they were.
Silas stepped forward, his face more grim than usual, carrying in his features the weariness of the journey and the weight of despair.
He spoke in a low voice:
"My lord… we no longer have much time. The village is collapsing. Death is faster than us."
Before Reishel could respond, Crain approached, his voice barely a whisper:
"An entire family has died… even the infant didn't survive."
He lowered his eyes and continued, his voice trembling:
"The disease didn't give them a chance. The house was sealed, but when they opened it this morning… their bodies were wrapped around the hearth, as if they tried to find warmth—or each other. But even the fire could not save them."
Reishel stared at him and saw in his eyes something beyond words… that kind of sorrow which doesn't come from tears, but from emptiness.
Then he asked in a hoarse voice,
"Have you found a cure?"
Michael answered, guilt etched across his face:
"We've tried everything… antidote doses, protective magic, purification spells… but this is no ordinary illness, my lord. It's something… something that moves as if it knows us, sneaking into the body, not like poison, but as though it's searching for something to destroy."
Silence fell.
Reishel felt as though someone had struck his chest with a hammer. He came here to save, to heal, to be the king who protects… and yet here he was, helpless—a child wearing a crown, surrounded by men older than him, with nothing but words.
Suddenly… the flap of the tent burst open violently.
Emily rushed in, her face pale, her hand trembling. She was carrying a small girl in her arms, barely breathing.
Emily, crying:
"She's just a child… my friend's daughter. I've known her for so long… her mother died this morning, and only the girl remains. She has no one left, her fever won't drop, and her breathing is fading."
Reishel approached slowly, gazed at the girl who barely moved. He took her hand—it was as cold as ice. Her face was bluish, like a sunless sky. His heart shivered; he could see death looming over her.
He turned to Michael, who immediately stepped closer and gently placed a hand on the girl's forehead, trying to sense what was wrong.
He said softly,
"It's too late. She's gone…"
Reishel whispered sorrowfully,
"I'm sorry… I'm truly sorry."
And he saw the girl open her eyes for a moment… then close them quietly. No pain. No sound.
Her hand slipped from his.
Emily screamed and collapsed to the ground, clutching the child's lifeless body, crying as she had never cried before. Her voice pierced the silence of the tents.
Silas, who rarely showed emotion, turned his face away, pressing his hand to his mouth, afraid the sorrow in his eyes would be seen.
Crain stepped forward slowly, stood beside the body, and said in a hoarse voice:
"Do you know, my lord? I'm no longer afraid of death… I fear getting used to it."
Reishel stood, anger and despair warring inside him:
"Then what's your explanation for this illness? Why can't we cure it?"
Michael replied,
"Because it's not just biological… it's as if there's a hidden curse, something rooted deep within them, preventing their bodies from fighting back—even against the simplest of medicines. The disease devours them from within, but leaves no clear mark… as if something magical is blocking the healing."
A heavy silence fell. Then… snow began to fall—light, quiet, but unnatural. Winter had not yet come, as though nature itself was mourning with them.
Silas stepped forward, stood beside Reishel, and said in a hushed tone:
"No one deserves to see children suffer like this… not at this age, and not in this way."
Harlow, one of the field commanders, added:
"We've grown used to death on the battlefield… but this—this is different. We can't raise our swords against it, nor protect those we love."
Then Warner, looking up at the sky, said:
"If we don't find a cure for this illness… even if the sun rises, it won't light a thing."
That night, no one slept. They sat around the fire—not seeking warmth, but fearing loneliness. They stared at the sky—not hoping for a cure, but for a dawn that might bring a change… even a small one.
As for Reishel, he distanced himself from them, sitting alone behind the tents, watching the falling snow.
His eyes were tearful—but he did not cry. He simply placed a hand over his heart, as if swearing a silent vow, whispering:
"I will not fight with my crown… but with my humanity."
And deep inside, he knew…
What awaited them would not be mercy, but a trial for hearts that had not yet broken.
A Month Later
The sunset hung heavy over the village of Kaldor, as if the sky had torn apart and all that remained were suffocating orange threads above everyone's heads. It had only been a few hours since the last child was buried when the news reached Reishel like poisoned arrows: the disease was no longer contained within Kaldor—it had spread.
Distress messages began flooding in from neighboring towns: Audren, Erath, even the outskirts of the capital itself. The same deadly symptoms. And before this flood of death, despair began to gnaw away at the confidence of the medical councils, until it seemed that the kingdom itself was infected—trembling under the weight of a catastrophe unlike any before.
But the real blow came the next day.
While Reishel was holding an emergency meeting with his advisors—
Krin: "My lord... we've begun losing a lot of food. Supply lines are cut off. The farmers refuse to leave their homes, afraid of the infection. The mines are shut down. Merchants are fleeing the cities. We're entering a slow siege."
Warner: "Even the guards hesitate to carry out their patrols. Your Majesty, the people are terrified."
Michael: "We haven't found a cure for this disease. If we don't act quickly, the kingdom will vanish in the blink of an eye."
As tensions rose and everyone debated, Harlow—one of the pillars of the court—suddenly collapsed in the middle of the room. His body curled, and he began coughing violently, then covered his mouth with his hand—now stained with blood.
Krin rushed to hold him, but Harlow shouted: "Don't come closer! Don't... come closer!"
He stared at them with vacant eyes, then fell unconscious.
Reishel didn't need tests or complex diagnoses. He recognized the symptom from the very first moment.
The disease... had reached the heart of the court.
He was speechless, standing still, staring at Harlow's body as it was carried away on a magical stretcher to the quarantine wing.
This man was one of the first who believed in him, who taught him how to hear the silence of war and how to rule without shouting.
The thought of losing him nearly tore Reishel's heart apart.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He entered the royal library in the same clothes he had worn earlier, without saying a word.
He began searching through hundreds of books, thousands of ancient scrolls.
Candlelight flickered between the shelves, and the air was thick with dust and forgotten knowledge.
He sat on the floor, flipping through book after book—names of herbs, methods of purification, forgotten spells—but there was no trace of a real cure.
Until, finally, a book fell into his hands.
It was old, bound in strange leather, titled: "The Healing Shadows: On the Diseases of Magic and the Soul."
He opened it, flipping through its pages desperately until he reached a chapter titled: "Strange Illnesses."
And there... he found it.
"Dr. Ashton Williamson"—a magical doctor said to have cured diseases that even the wisest physicians feared, healed wounds that refused to close.
It was said he traveled to lands unmarked on maps, and lived atop a hidden mountain shrouded in magical mists.
He accepted no visitors, and had long stopped treating others.
Reishel closed the book and rose at once.
By morning, he had made his decision.
He would not wait for death to claim more lives.
He would go seek out this doctor himself.
Silas didn't object. He simply began preparing supplies in silence.
And Michael, despite his exhaustion, insisted on going with them:
"I won't let you search for a man of legend alone. Let me come, even if my presence changes nothing."
They left Arcadius under the shadow of night, the city sleeping under a heavy silence.
Days passed—long and grueling.
They faced beasts along the road, forests of shifting weather, villages haunted by silence, and rumors claiming the doctor had died decades ago.
But Reishel never stopped.
At last, they reached the edge of the forgotten mountain.
Some records called it Mount Orestus, others The Blind Back—for it never appeared on maps, and its summit was never seen.
They climbed with great effort, through thick fog that concealed everything.
The closer they got, the more it felt like their steps echoed through forgotten memories.
Finally, after a harsh journey, they found an old cottage surrounded by a circle of symbols carved into the ground, faintly glowing.
Reishel knocked on the door.
Moments of silence passed.
Then the door slowly opened.
A man stood behind it—disheveled brown hair, simple clothes, and deep walnut-colored eyes: warm, yet steady.
Perched on his shoulder was a black raven with golden eyes.
"Who are you?"
The doctor asked in a deep voice—neither harsh nor friendly, just neutral.
Reishel replied with resolve:
"I am Reishel Galverhad of the Kingdom of Arcadius. I've come to ask for your help. The disease is devouring my people, reaching my palace. The physicians have failed. Hope is fading. And I... am starting to lose hope, too."
The doctor looked at him for a long time, then tilted his head slightly, as if seeing something beyond the body.
"Your name... Reishel?"
"Yes."
He stared at him a little longer, then said:
"You look like someone I once knew."
The raven on his shoulder fixed its deep gaze on Reishel, as if peering into his soul.
Reishel, confused:
"Someone you knew?"
But the doctor didn't answer.
Instead, he looked to the raven and whispered something strange:
"Isn't that so?"
The raven suddenly let out a sharp caw, as if in agreement.
The doctor gave a faint smile and said:
"Come in, then. For fate only speaks when the world goes silent."
And so, Reishel and his companions stepped inside—unaware they had just entered a new chapter of the tale...
And destiny... would continue writing the rest....
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