The fires burned steadily across Hallowglen, their light casting flickering shadows over the weary village. For two days, Kalenor had pushed himself to the edge, rallying the villagers and holding back the plague’s encroaching corruption. The fire had brought them a fragile hope, but even that flickered against the growing darkness. Despite the strides they’d made, Kalenor’s thoughts remained burdened. The plague was no ordinary sickness—it was alive, insidious, and spreading faster than he could contain.

  As the village settled into a tense quiet, Kalenor climbed to the highest platform in the main hall, crossing his legs and closing his sharp amber eyes. The faint hum of Essentaria pulsed within him, steady and unyielding, as he reached out through the bond that tied him to Morbitral, the Great Plague Dragon. Though his master’s presence often lingered like a whisper in the back of his mind, this time, the silence was deafening.

  “Master,” Kalenor murmured, his voice calm but urgent. “I need your guidance.”

  Hours passed in stillness. The village outside bustled quietly, the crackle of bonfires and the faint murmur of patrols drifting in the air. Kalenor didn’t move, his focus unwavering, his call persistent. He knew Morbitral would answer—he had to.

  On the second night, as the flames burned low and the village fell silent, the stillness within Kalenor’s mind finally shifted. A voice, deep and resonant, echoed through his thoughts—a voice as ancient and deliberate as the decay it governed.

  “You call to me, my Scalesworn,” Morbitral said, his tone calm and measured. “What troubles you so deeply?”

  “Master,” Kalenor said, exhaling slowly. “The corruption is spreading faster than I feared. It has reached creatures two days away, and the afflicted grow restless with each passing moment. The village is holding for now, but I cannot protect them alone. What must I do?”

  There was a moment of contemplative silence before Morbitral spoke again. “The corruption you face is no mere plague. It is a willful force, a shadow that seeks to twist what is natural into something... unnatural. Its roots are bound to this land, but its hunger stretches beyond.”

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  Kalenor frowned. “Brynshale,” he murmured. “The plague is contained here, for now. But how do I stop it from spreading further? How do I protect these people?”

  “You endure,” Morbitral said cryptically. “For six days, you will hold the line. The flame will come, and with it, the power to cleanse what must be cleansed. But you must prepare yourself, my Scalesworn. Fire does not distinguish—it destroys as easily as it purifies.”

  Kalenor’s brow furrowed. “The Scalesworns of Ignisaros…” he muttered, realization dawning. “You mean them. They’ll come to burn the forest.”

  “The flame will burn what must be burned,” Morbitral said, his voice heavy with purpose. “But even fire cannot burn away every shadow.”

  “What kind of shadow are we facing?” Kalenor pressed. “This corruption—it’s sentient, isn’t it? It’s not just decay.”

  There was a pause, longer this time, before Morbitral spoke again, his tone cryptic yet deliberate. “The corruption is more than plague. It is guided by intent, its roots entwined with something greater. You have already heard of her.”

  Kalenor’s breath caught. “Her?” he echoed.

  “The one cloaked in blue,” Morbitral said, his voice growing softer, like the rustle of withered leaves. “Her presence marked the beginning of this decay. She is not its master, but she carries its will, guiding its spread. She walks in the shadow of the corruption, her steps paving the way for its advance.”

  The Lady in Blue. Kalenor’s mind flashed to the elders’ account—the noblewoman who had passed through Hallowglen before the plague began, cloaked in oceanic hues and leaving unease in her wake. He had dismissed the tale as circumstantial, but now his master’s words painted her in a far more sinister light.

  “Is she the source of this?” Kalenor asked, his voice low and tense.

  “She is part of it,” Morbitral replied, his tone giving nothing away. “Her steps are not without purpose, and her presence is no accident. But you must not act against her—not yet. You are not ready, and her path is not yet complete. Focus on the task before you. Protect the village. Endure. And when the flame arrives, you will see the truth for yourself.”

  Kalenor’s jaw tightened, frustration warring with understanding. “What if she returns? What if she comes back to this village?”

  “If she returns, you will know her by the shadow she carries,” Morbitral said cryptically. “But do not confront her, Kalenor. To do so now would invite ruin. Focus on the six days ahead. Hold the line, and prepare for what is to come. The balance depends on your resolve.”

  The connection began to fade, but Morbitral’s final words lingered in Kalenor’s mind like the whisper of a passing storm. “Endure, my Scalesworn. The balance must be preserved, no matter the cost. Fire will reveal the shadow, but only when the time is right.”

  Kalenor opened his eyes, the quiet of the hall pressing in around him. Rising to his feet, he adjusted his cloak and stepped outside into the cool night air. The fires burned steadily, their glow a beacon of fragile hope for the villagers. But Kalenor’s mind remained heavy, burdened by his master’s cryptic warnings.

  The Lady in Blue. She wasn’t just a traveler or a bystander—she was entwined with the plague itself. Her presence marked the beginning of the corruption, and her shadow loomed over Brynshale like a shroud.

  Six days. Six days to hold the line, to fight, and to survive. The flame was coming, but so too was the shadow. And Kalenor would be ready.