Kalenor followed the man down the narrow dirt path leading deeper into Hallowglen. The air had grown even heavier, thick with the weight of decay, and the strange unease that had settled in the village now seemed to cling to him, as though the land itself was infected. He could hear the faint sound of footsteps ahead, echoing on the damp stone, but the stillness of the village pressed in on him, amplifying every sound, every whisper of the wind through the trees. The fog seemed to move with purpose, swirling as if it, too, were alive with something that should not be.

  As they rounded the corner of a crumbling home, Kalenor’s senses sharpened. Ahead, a small group of villagers had gathered, huddled around a man lying on the ground. The air around them was thick with the unmistakable sound of ragged breaths—labored, strained. Kalenor’s heart tightened as he saw the man’s condition. His body shook in spasms, his skin mottled with dark veins that seemed to pulse and twist beneath the surface, the raw patches where the skin had peeled away revealing a sickly, reddish hue. Black, stem-like growths emerged from these patches, slowly spreading like the creeping rot of the forest.

  The woman hovering anxiously over him was gaunt, her eyes wide with fear. Her face twisted in grief and desperation as she tried, helplessly, to comfort the afflicted man.

  Kalenor stopped the man who had been leading him, his eyes still fixed on the suffering figure. "I’ll go check on him. You go ahead to the elders," Kalenor said, his voice low but firm, a quiet authority in his tone.

  The man hesitated but then nodded, his face marked with worry. "Be careful, Scalesworn," he muttered before continuing his way toward the village center.

  Kalenor approached the huddled group, his every step deliberate. As he drew near, he saw the full extent of the man’s affliction. The raw patches of skin, flaking off in thin strips, left the flesh beneath open and vulnerable. The growths, like black tendrils, curled out from the man’s body in unnatural directions, pulsing as if alive.

  “Step aside,” Kalenor instructed, his voice carrying an air of calm authority. The villagers moved back, giving him space.

  From his satchel, Kalenor drew a small vial of pre-made medicine—herbs from the surrounding woods, mixed with his own Essentaria. He had always carried it for emergencies, a simple remedy to slow the effects of illnesses or injuries that needed a quick cure. He opened the vial and carefully imbued it with more of his own Essentaria, the energy flowing through his fingers and into the mixture. The medicine began to glow faintly as the power of decay, inherent to his connection with Morbitral, blended with his essence, fortifying the remedy.

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  He gently applied the medicine to the man’s raw skin, watching as the black tendrils recoiled, slowing their growth. The afflicted man let out a faint sigh, his body relaxing slightly as the intense pain began to ease. His breathing steadied for a moment, though the signs of illness still lingered on him like a shadow.

  Kalenor looked up at the woman, his amber eyes sharp and focused. “What happened to him?”

  The woman trembled as she spoke, her voice low and shaky. “He went out to gather firewood for our home three days ago... He came back with a cough, just a little at first. We thought it was nothing, just the cold. But... but he collapsed while walking to the market. He’s been like this since. Worse and worse every day.” She looked down at her husband, helplessness clouding her features. "He doesn't even remember how he fell. We thought maybe it was a fever, but it's... it's not right."

  Kalenor nodded, his face unreadable. He could feel the weight of her words, the growing certainty that this illness was no ordinary affliction. This plague, if it could even be called that, was not just ravaging the body—it was altering it, changing it, warping it in ways that Kalenor could not yet fully understand.

  “I’ve slowed the progression of the illness for now,” Kalenor said, his voice firm with the authority of his role. “Make sure he rests, and keep him warm. But the plague is far from over, and you’ll need to keep him under watch.”

  The woman nodded, her fear still palpable, but there was a flicker of hope in her eyes. “Thank you... thank you, Scalesworn.”

  Kalenor nodded once, standing to his feet. “I’ll see that he is taken to the elders,” he said.

  He turned back to the group of villagers, then to the man still groaning on the ground. The woman gently cradled her husband’s head in her lap as Kalenor gestured for the villagers to help lift the man. They carefully assisted him, the once vibrant man now nothing more than a husk of pain and affliction. Kalenor led them towards the village center, his thoughts heavy with what he had seen. There was something deeply wrong in Hallowglen, something far worse than a simple illness. The balance had been disturbed, and whatever was responsible was more insidious than any plague Kalenor had ever encountered.

  “Take him to the elders,” Kalenor instructed the man as he continued on his way. The villagers nodded and disappeared into the shadows of the village.

  Kalenor’s steps grew heavier as he approached the village center. Whatever had taken root here, whatever had brought the plague to this place, it would be up to him to find it—and stop it—before it consumed Hallowglen entirely.