The scene at the main gate of Blackfen Village was precisely the tableau of fear and desperation the travelers had described. A handful of gaunt, ragged survivors huddled outside the sturdy wooden palisade, their faces etched with the exhaustion of flight and the terror of being denied entry. The man who had been pounding on the gate now leaned against it, spent, while the woman with the bundle rocked it gently, her sobs quieter but no less heartbreaking. On the rampart walk above, armed villagers stared down, crossbows nervously aimed, their expressions torn between suspicion and a shred of pity. The air crackled with tension, thick with the smell of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the ever-present undercurrent of fear.

  Edmund stepped forward, his hand raised in a placating gesture, his voice calm but carrying clearly over the murmurs and sniffles. "Hold your bolts! We mean no harm. These people need shelter!" His inherent trust, his belief in basic decency, compelled him to intervene. "Look at them! They've suffered enough out there. Wouldn't you want the same mercy shown to you?"

  A gruff voice shouted down from the wall. "Mercy's a quick way to die in these times! How do we know they don't carry the Blight?" Another villager added, "We've kept Blackfen safe by being careful! We can't risk everything for strangers!"

  While Edmund argued, Isolde’s gaze swept over the group of survivors, her eyes sharp and analytical. Her attention snagged on the woman with the bundle—it was indeed a small child, unnaturally still, its face pale. There was a makeshift bandage wrapped around the child's arm, stained dark. Isolde moved closer, ignoring the nervous shifting of the guards above.

  "Let me see the child," she said quietly but firmly to the mother. The woman hesitated, then reluctantly allowed Isolde to examine the arm. Isolde gently unwrapped the crude bandage. It was a deep gash, ugly and inflamed, but clean of the tell-tale greyish veins or sickly sweet smell that often accompanied the Blight's touch.

  She looked up at the guards. "This wound is clean," she announced, her voice carrying authority. "It's a mundane injury, not the Blight." Seeing their continued skepticism, she added, "The Blight here… the rumors say it manifests differently, doesn't it? More subtle, perhaps, especially in those with little connection to the Essence." She was referencing fragmented reports they'd heard, but also her own understanding of how the magical plague might vary.

  As the debate continued, the guards momentarily distracted by Isolde's assessment, her eyes flickered across the other survivors. One man stood slightly apart, his face etched with fatigue but otherwise appearing hale. He met her gaze briefly, offering a weak, reassuring smile. But just for a second, as he shifted his weight, Isolde caught it—a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his hand, quickly stilled. And the pallor beneath his weather-beaten skin… it seemed just a shade too grey, too lifeless. No, she thought, her blood running cold. It couldn't be. It was too subtle, easily missed. Pointing it out now, amidst this fear, would only cause panic and likely get everyone denied entry. She kept her face impassive, pushing the observation away for the moment.

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  Isolde quickly re-bandaged the child's arm using cleaner strips of cloth from her own pack, murmuring a soft word of comfort the child was likely too listless to hear. The pleas from the survivors continued, Edmund adding his voice, trying to reason with the fearful guards.

  Suddenly, a desperate cry came from inside the walls, near the gatehouse. "Rhys? Rhys, is that you?" A woman’s face appeared at an arrow slit, frantic with emotion. Her eyes locked onto the seemingly healthy survivor Isolde had just noticed. "Rhys! By the spirits, you're alive! Guards, open the gate! It's Rhys! Let him in!"

  The man—Rhys—looked up, his expression transforming into one of relieved recognition. "Elara!"

  Elara's desperate, tearful pleading changed the dynamic instantly. The guards exchanged uneasy glances. Denying entry to strangers was one thing; denying one of their own villagers her lover, standing right there… the pressure became immense. After a moment of tense silence, the lead guard sighed heavily and gave the order. "Unbar the gate. Let them all in. Quickly!"

  With groaning timbers, the heavy wooden gate swung inwards. The survivors stumbled through, relief warring with exhaustion on their faces. Edmund gave Isolde a nod, relieved at the outcome, and ushered her inside. As they passed through, Isolde couldn't help but cast one last, worried glance back at Rhys as Elara rushed to embrace him. The tremor, the pallor… had she imagined it? Or had they just welcomed a hidden seed of the Blight into the heart of Blackfen Village?

  Later that evening, huddled in the relative quiet of a small, drafty room at the village's only inn, Isolde finally voiced her fear. She waited until Edmund had finished checking the door and window fastenings, his usual practical routine.

  "Edmund," she began, her voice low. "The man Elara recognized. Rhys."

  He looked up, sensing the gravity in her tone. "What about him, Ms. Isa?"

  "When I looked at him at the gate… I saw something. A tremor in his hand. A greyness to his skin." She met his gaze directly. "I believe he's infected."

  Edmund stared, his optimistic expression faltering. "Infected? But… he looked fine. Elara…"

  "I know," Isolde interrupted softly, the weight of her secret settling heavily between them. "But the signs were there, however faint. We let the Blight walk right in."