A scream echoed from Lord Vane's estate, high-pitched and raw.
Lord Vane stood at the entrance to his vault, his torch shaking in his grip. Heat still poured from the room, carrying the smell of smoke and burnt metal.
Instead of piles of gold coins, there was now a single, uneven lake of hardened yellow metal. It spread across the floor, useless and stuck to the stone.
But what truly shattered him was the centerpiece.
In the middle of the golden lake stood a statue. It was his Mercenary Captain, covered in gold, mouth open in a silent scream, hand reaching out as if still hoping for a payment that would never arrive.
"My gold..." Vane whispered, falling to his knees. "My beautiful gold..."
He crawled forward, burning his hands on the warm metal as he clawed at the hardened mass. All his coins were there, but now they formed one huge, unmoving lump. To use any of it, he would have to cut it apart bit by bit. It was a fortune he could see, but never spend.
On the wall, scorched into the stone with black soot, was a message written in elegant, looping script:
Greed is heavy, My Lord.
Meanwhile, in the West Tower, the mood was much lighter.
Mirabelle sat in a porcelain tub filled with hot water. The air was heavy with the smell of lavender.
Revas knelt beside the tub with his sleeves rolled up, holding a sponge.
"You have soot behind your ear," he murmured, his voice low and focused.
He gently ran the sponge down her neck. His touch was careful but possessive. He washed her the way someone would clean a sharp, valuable knife: with caution to avoid harm, but also with respect.
"Vane will be ruined," Mirabelle said, leaning back with her eyes closed. "Without his money, he can't pay the mercenaries. The Iron Legion will leave him within a week."
"Or torture him," Revas said with a grin. "Mercenaries get angry when they aren't paid. I remember a warlord in the Second Age who was fed to his own hogs. That was poetic." He squeezed the sponge over her shoulder, watching the water run down her skin.
"The Council is in a panic," Revas went on. "I hear whispers in the castle. They're scared of the 'Shadow Thief.' They think a demon army broke into the vault. They have no clue it was just us, a rainy night, and some bad moods."
Mirabelle opened her eyes. She looked at the iron collar on his neck, glistening with condensation.
"Fiona hasn't panicked," she noted. "She was quiet at dinner. Too quiet."
"She is plotting," Revas agreed. He dropped the sponge and picked up a towel. "Stand up, Mistress."
Mirabelle stood up, water running down her body. Revas wrapped her in a big, soft towel and dried her quickly and efficiently. He didn't stare at her. His hunger was clear in his red eyes, but it was for her spirit and her malice, not just her body.
"Let her plot," Revas whispered, kissing her damp shoulder through the towel. "I'm still hungry for excitement." A sudden knock at the door interrupted them.
"Your Highness!" a servant's voice called out, trembling. "A message from Princess Fiona!"
Revas sighed. "Speak of the devil," he said.
He walked to the door and opened it. The servant squeaked, shoved a scroll into Revas' hand, and ran off down the hall.
Revas unrolled the parchment and read it, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
"Oh," he chuckled. "She's clever. I'll give her that."
"What does it say?" Mirabelle asked as she stepped out of the tub and reached for her silk robe.
Revas handed her the scroll.
To the Saintess of the Abyss,
Since you possess the favor of the Guardian and the power of miracles, the people cry out for your aid. The Lower District is suffering from the 'Grey Rot.' As a true Saintess, surely you can heal them?
I have arranged a public visit to the Quarantine Ward tomorrow at noon. The City awaits your benevolence.
— Fiona
Mirabelle squeezed the scroll tightly in her hand."The Grey Rot," she whispered. "It's a magical plague that can't be cured. It turns skin to stone and blood to dust. Even the High Priests can't fix it."
"It's a trap," Revas said, looking pleased. "If you go and can't cure them, everyone will see you as a fraud. The people will turn against you. Malachi will have you burned at the stake."
"And if I refuse to go," Mirabelle added, "I'll look like a coward who doesn't care about the poor."
She looked at Revas. "Can you cure it?"
Revas tilted his head. "I'm the World Eater, Mirabelle. I'm made to end life, not save it."
Mirabelle felt her heart sink. "So we can't do it."
"I didn't say that," Revas replied. He walked to the mirror and fixed his wet hair.
"The Grey Rot is a curse. It's a kind of magical energy, but it's corrupted and stagnant. I can't heal flesh like a priest..."
He turned to her, his grin wide and filled with teeth.
"...but I can eat the curse."
He walked over to her, looming tall and dark.
"It won't be pretty," he warned. "It won't be gentle. It will be violent and painful. But I can pull the sickness out of them and eat it."
He licked his lips.
"I've never tasted Grey Rot. I wonder if it tastes like mushrooms."
Mirabelle looked at the crumpled invitation. Fiona believed she had trapped them, sending Mirabelle into a situation that would ruin her reputation.
"She wants a miracle?" Mirabelle said, her eyes narrowing. "We'll give her one."
She walked to the wardrobe and took out a white dress. It was simple, clean, and almost looked like something a priest would wear.
"But we won't do it quietly," Mirabelle said. "Revas, tomorrow you'll be a miracle doctor. We're going to the Quarantine Ward, and we're going to perform surgery."
Revas bowed low.