Edmund stared, bewildered, as Elara clung to Rhys, her joyous sobs echoing slightly in the sudden hush that had fallen over the onlookers near the gate. The sight was deeply moving—love reunited against impossible odds. Yet, beside him, Isolde stood rigid, a knot of disbelief tightening in her chest. The other villagers murmured amongst themselves, relief warring with the ingrained suspicion that had become second nature in the Blighted Isles. A man seemingly returned from the Blight’s grasp? It was unheard of, a miracle… or something else.
Isolde’s gaze remained fixed on Rhys. She scanned him intently, searching for any lingering trace—the unnatural pallor, the subtle tremor, the chilling coldness she knew she had sensed. There was nothing. He looked merely tired, thinner perhaps, but undeniably whole, radiating a normal warmth as he held Elara. This wasn’t right. The Blight didn't just release its victims; it consumed or twisted them utterly. Her experience, the lore, everything screamed that this was impossible. A profound disquiet settled over her, colder than the fen wind. This vanishing act wasn’t the relief of a cure; it felt like a veil drawn over a deeper, more insidious danger. Something profoundly unnatural was at play.
As Elara, beaming through her tears, began leading Rhys towards her small cottage near the center of the village, her hand clasped tightly in his, a sudden cry of alarm cut through the tentative relief. A commotion erupted near the village well, where the other newcomers were gathered. One of the survivors, a thin woman who had arrived with Rhys's group, suddenly collapsed, her body seized by violent convulsions. Foaming at the mouth, her eyes rolled back in her head.
Panic flared instantly through the village. "The Blight! She has it!" someone shrieked. "They brought it after all!" The fragile sense of hope shattered, replaced by raw terror. The villagers scrambled back, weapons raised, their suspicion immediately shifting from the 'miraculously cured' Rhys to the other desperate souls they had allowed inside. Elara paused, her joyous expression faltering as she looked from Rhys back towards the panicked crowd, caught between her happiness and the renewed fear gripping her home.
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While Edmund instinctively moved to help the fallen woman, keeping a wary distance, Isolde’s attention remained split. The sudden, violent illness was alarming, yes, but the timing felt too convenient, almost like a deliberate distraction. Her mind kept returning to Rhys's impossible recovery and the secrets of the corrupted shrine.
Suspicion and dread quickly replaced the brief moment of joyous reunion in the village square. Fearful murmurs turned into arguments as villagers debated what to do with the collapsed traveler, their fear reigniting anxieties about village safety. Some began casting suspicious glances at all the newcomers, including the now symptom-free Rhys, whose recovery suddenly seemed less miraculous and more unsettling.
Later, after the convulsing woman had been cautiously moved to an isolated shed, Isolde managed a brief, discreet examination. The symptoms were aggressive, far more so than the wasting sickness Elder Maeve had described, yet different from the swift decay she’d seen elsewhere. Meanwhile, she observed Rhys from afar as Elara fussed over him. He moved normally, spoke clearly, yet… there was an odd stillness to him, an almost too-perfect performance of weary relief.
Her suspicions solidifying into near certainty, Isolde sought out Edmund later that evening. "It's not him, Edmund," she stated bluntly, her voice low and urgent. "The man with Elara. The Blight doesn't vanish like that. And the way he watched us when he arrived… it's wrong." She recounted the inconsistencies she'd noted, the impossible nature of his 'recovery.'
Edmund, troubled by the day's events and the lingering image of the frost on the pail, finally let his ingrained trust give way to Isolde’s grim logic. The lack of Blight symptoms wasn't a miracle; it was a terrifying inconsistency. "Then who is he?" Edmund asked, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
"I don't know," Isolde admitted. "But whatever he is, he's connected to that shrine, I'm sure of it. We need to find out who—or what—is wearing Rhys's face." Their focus shifted. The immediate threat wasn't just the Blight, but the deception hiding within their walls.
