The small inn room felt both confining and like a fragile sanctuary against the oppressive atmosphere of Blackfen Village. Rain pattered against the warped windowpane, blurring the view of the muddy track outside. Inside, the air was thick with unspoken tension.

  "So, we agree," Isolde murmured, tracing patterns on the rough-spun blanket covering the lumpy mattress. "Rhys carries the Blight, but it's… dormant? Hidden? Unlike anything I've seen before." She looked across at Edmund, who was methodically checking the buckles on his leather vambraces. "We can't be certain it was him I saw, not truly. That tremor could have been exhaustion. The pallor, a trick of the light." Even as she voiced the doubts, her gut feeling remained unchanged.

  Edmund finished his buckle and met her gaze, his usual optimism tempered with seriousness. "But you felt it, Ms. Isa. Your senses are sharper than mine when it comes to the Essence. And even if it's subtle, the risk…" He didn't need to finish the sentence. A single infected individual, especially one moving freely amongst the terrified villagers, could spell doom for the entire settlement.

  The next morning, Edmund ventured out into the village proper. Blackfen was a huddle of timber-framed houses with steeply pitched roofs, many showing signs of hasty repair. A palpable anxiety hung in the air, thicker than the morning mist rising from the nearby fen. He watched the interactions—the tight-lipped greetings, the wary glances cast towards the handful of newcomers who hadn't been immediately taken in by relatives. Fear bred suspicion, a poison almost as dangerous as the Blight itself. Elara and Rhys were seen briefly near the baker's stall, Elara's relief still evident, though Rhys kept his face mostly shadowed by his cloak's hood.

  Meanwhile, Isolde sought out the village elder. She'd been directed to a small, herb-scented cottage tucked away near the palisade wall. Elder Maeve was a woman whose age was hard to guess, her face a network of deep wrinkles, but her eyes sharp and perceptive. She listened patiently as Isolde, choosing her words carefully, inquired about the local Blight manifestations.

  "Aye, the Blight here… it plays tricks," Maeve said, her voice raspy like dry leaves. "Seen it myself. Some folks… they just waste away slow, their minds fillin' with sorrowful rage, like the rumors say. Others… well, others seem almost untouched, for a time." She spoke of old tales, fragmented lore passed down through generations—whispers of spirits tied to the fen, of nature's balance being disrupted long before the main wave of the Blight. "There's power in that fen," Maeve rasped, leaning closer. "Old power. Twisted, now. There's a shrine deep within, hidden by reeds and shadow. Place of the Old Ones, they called it. If the Blight's actin' strange, that's where I'd look first."

  As Isolde was speaking with Maeve, a commotion erupted near the village well. Edmund hurried over to see one of the other survivors—the man who had been leaning on the crutch at the gate—collapse, shivering violently. His skin was clammy, his breathing ragged. Panic rippled through the nearby villagers. "See! The Blight!" someone yelled. "They brought it in!"

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Edmund pushed through the small crowd, kneeling beside the fallen man. He felt a surge of pity, but also suspicion. Was this the infected one Isolde had sensed? The symptoms seemed more overt than the subtle signs she'd described on Rhys. He helped carry the man back towards the inn, his mind racing.

  Later, as Isolde prepared to leave the elder's cottage, Maeve gripped her arm. "One more thing," the old woman whispered, her eyes intense. "This Blight… the tricky kind… watch their hands. Not for shaking, girl. For the cold. A deep, unnatural cold that lingers, even by a warm fire. Like touchin' grave soil in winter."

  Isolde thanked the elder, her mind buzzing with the new information. When she returned to the inn, Edmund met her with a troubled look. "One of the others collapsed," he explained. "Fever, shivering. Looks bad." But even as he spoke, the man they'd brought in seemed to be rallying, the shivering subsiding, replaced by a weak but normal exhaustion. It wasn't the Blight, Edmund realized. Just a common ague, exacerbated by fear and exposure. His initial suspicion had been wrong.

  That evening, seeking fresh air, Edmund stood near the inn's stable yard. He saw Elara and Rhys walking arm-in-arm nearby, their hushed conversation carrying faintly on the damp air. As Rhys reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from Elara's cheek, his hand brushed against a metal pail left out in the yard. Edmund saw it clearly—a thin layer of frost instantly bloomed on the metal where Rhys's fingers had touched, vanishing almost as quickly as it appeared. He frowned, disturbed by the unnatural sight. What could cause such a thing?

  He found Isolde back in their room, staring into the flickering candlelight. Before he could describe the strange event, she looked up. "The elder gave me a clue," she said softly. "A symptom of this hidden Blight… an unnatural coldness in their touch. Like touching grave soil in winter."

  Edmund's eyes widened slightly as her words clicked with what he'd witnessed. "Ms. Isa, I just saw it," he said, his voice low and serious. "Rhys touched a metal pail outside. Frost appeared instantly where his hand made contact."

  Isolde nodded grimly, her suspicions now cemented by his observation. "Then it's confirmed. It's Rhys."

  Their independent findings painted the same chilling truth. The seemingly healthy survivor, the object of Elara's joy, was undeniably infected with this insidious form of the Blight. "We have to do something," Edmund stated, the usual warmth in his voice replaced by hard resolve.

  Isolde agreed. Delay was too dangerous.

  Later that night, finding Rhys alone near the darkened edge of the village, seemingly staring out towards the oppressive fen, Isolde took a steadying breath. His posture seemed… heavier, the lines around his eyes deeper than before. Steeling herself, she stepped out of the shadows.

  "Rhys," she called out, her voice quiet but firm, cutting through the night air.