Rhys turned sharply as Isolde’s voice cut through the night air near the edge of the village. His face, illuminated by the weak moonlight filtering through the perpetual overcast, looked drawn and weary. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, etched by more than just fatigue.

  "What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

  Isolde stepped closer, keeping her tone even. "The coldness, Rhys. The frost on the pail. How long have you felt… different?"

  His eyes widened slightly in alarm, then darted around as if checking for eavesdroppers before settling back on her, filled with a dawning dread. He didn't deny it. "Since… since the attack near the mill," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "Something… got me. Didn't break the skin, not really, but I haven't felt right since. Cold. So cold, sometimes. And tired." He looked down at his hands, flexing them slowly. "I thought maybe… maybe it would pass."

  "It won't pass, Rhys. It's the Blight," Isolde stated, her voice soft but firm. "A subtle form, but it's there. You risk everyone in this village. You risk Elara."

  The mention of Elara's name made him flinch. Agony warred with love on his face. "Elara…" he breathed. He looked towards the silent village, then back at Isolde, a terrible understanding dawning in his eyes. "She waited so long. Thought I was dead." He clenched his fists, the knuckles white. "I can't… I can't bring this plague down on her. On any of them."

  His resolve hardened, though his expression remained heartbroken. "Tell her… tell her I couldn't stay. That I went to find my own way. Don't tell her the truth. Let her hate me, if she must, but let her be safe." Before Isolde could respond, he turned and melted into the oppressive darkness surrounding Blackfen, heading back towards the blighted fen from which he’d escaped, a lone figure choosing exile over contagion.

  The next morning, Elara’s distraught cries echoed through the inn’s common room. "He's gone! Rhys is gone!" she sobbed, clutching a small wooden bird Rhys had carved for her years ago. Panic seized her as she realized he wasn't just late rising; his few belongings were gone too.

  She frantically searched the village, her initial joy replaced by mounting terror. Her desperate questions to other villagers were met with shrugs, averted eyes, or fearful whispers about the dangers outside the walls. Finally, she cornered Edmund and Isolde near the gate, her eyes red-rimmed and pleading.

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  "You spoke to him last night! Isolde, you were seen near the edge of the village! Did he say anything? Where did he go?"

  Edmund’s heart ached for her pain. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Elara, we only spoke briefly. He seemed troubled, restless. Maybe… maybe the closeness of the village felt wrong after so long out there." He offered vague, useless words, hating the lie but bound by Rhys’s last request. Isolde remained silent, unable to meet Elara’s anguished gaze, the weight of the necessary deception heavy on her conscience.

  Later that day, Elara, refusing to give up hope, was searching near the edge of the fen just outside the village palisade, calling Rhys's name into the stagnant air. Isolde watched from the ramparts, her guilt a cold knot in her stomach. As she observed Elara's futile search, a sudden, unnatural chill swept over her, far colder than the damp air warranted. It felt ancient, deeply malevolent, and utterly alien to the Blight's familiar corruption.

  Her eyes scanned the treeline bordering the fen. For just an instant, she saw it—a flicker of movement, a shadow that seemed too deep, too sharp-edged against the grey foliage. It writhed, distorted, hinting at a form that defied natural law. And with the sight came a whisper, brushing against the edge of her consciousness like dry leaves skittering over stone. It wasn't words, exactly, but a feeling—ancient amusement, cold and predatory.

  Isolde shivered, pulling her cloak tighter. This was different. This wasn't the mindless hunger of the Blight. This felt older, more purposeful. The shrine, she thought, remembering Elder Maeve’s words. Something deep within the fen was awake, and perhaps it was connected to the strange Blight afflicting the village. She pushed the unease down, knowing she couldn't voice this new fear yet, but her resolve to investigate the fen solidified.

  That evening, Isolde recounted the chilling experience to Edmund back in their room. "It wasn't just the Blight, Edmund. It felt… intentional. Like something ancient was watching. Laughing." She explained the sudden cold, the distorted shadow, the unsettling whisper. "The elder spoke of old power in the fen, twisted now. She mentioned a shrine."

  Edmund listened intently, his expression grim. He thought of Elara's raw grief, of Rhys's forced exile, of the subtle wrongness they felt lingering over Blackfen. He trusted Isolde's instincts, especially when her magic sensed something amiss. "The shrine," he said, nodding slowly. "If this Blight is different, if there's something else lurking out there, the shrine Maeve mentioned is the only lead we have." Understanding the source might be the only way to truly help Blackfen, or at least understand the danger they faced.

  They gathered their meager supplies, the urgency of their new purpose overriding the gloom of the village. They needed answers, and the only place to find them lay out there, in the heart of the corrupted fen. With a final, shared glance of grim determination, they slipped out of the inn and headed towards the village gate, ready to face the darkness lurking within the Blackfen.