The Quarantine Ward of Sanctum was where hope disappeared.
It sat in the lowest part of the city, surrounded by walls of rotting wood and mud, always hidden in a thick, yellow fog. The smell reached them from far away: decay, unwashed bodies, and the dry, dusty scent of the Grey Rot.
Fiona had prepared everything carefully.
A raised platform stood outside the main gates, covered in royal purple silk. Princess Fiona sat there, holding a perfumed handkerchief to her face, with guards and anxious nobles around her. She watched like a spectator at a gladiator match.
Below, thousands of people crowded against the barricades. They were healthy relatives of those inside, crying and praying.
Mirabelle's carriage arrived, pulled by black horses.
When she stepped out, the crowd fell silent. She wore a bright white linen dress, with no jewelry except a ruby choker. She looked like a living marble statue.
Revas followed her. He wore a long, dark grey wool coat with the collar turned up. He carried a doctor's bag, which he insisted on bringing because, as he said, "it adds gravitas."
They walked past the guards and the crying crowd, stopping in front of the sealed gates of the Ward.
"Sister!" Fiona called down from the platform, her voice muffled by the silk. "How brave of you! The victims are inside. The priests have given them their last rites. But perhaps... your 'Guardian' can do better?"
Mirabelle looked up. "Open the gates."
"We cannot!" the Gate Captain protested. "The disease is airborne! If we open the gates, the city falls!"
Mirabelle looked at Revas.
Revas stepped forward. He placed a hand on the heavy wooden beams of the gate.
"Wood rot," he diagnosed. "Termites. Very poor structural integrity."
He tapped the wood.
The massive gates shattered. Instead of bursting outward, they crumbled inward and became a pile of sawdust in seconds.
Revas brushed off his hands. "After you, Saintess."
Mirabelle walked into the Ward.
It was a nightmare. People lay in the mud, their bodies partly turned to grey stone. Some were still breathing, their eyes moving in panic. Others were half flesh and half rock, screaming as the hardening spread inside them.
"Save us!" a man croaked, dragging his stone legs through the muck. "Saintess! Mercy!"
Mirabelle felt a moment of real pity, but it quickly turned into cold determination. She needed these people.
"Bring me the worst one," she commanded.
Revas looked over the crowd and pointed to a young woman near a fire pit. She was almost all stone, except for her face and one arm. She gasped for air as her lungs hardened.
Revas walked over, lifted her easily, and carried her to the center of the muddy square. He placed her on a wooden table.
"This will be interesting," Revas said quietly as he rolled up his sleeves. He opened his doctor's bag, which was empty except for an apple he had brought as a snack. He took a bite and set it aside.
"Listen to me!" Mirabelle shouted, her voice loud in the quiet crowd. "The Grey Rot is a curse! It is a living parasite of magic! To cure it, it must be fed!"
She pointed at Revas.
"The Guardian will eat the sin!"
The crowd gasped. Fiona leaned forward on her platform, narrowing her eyes.
Revas placed his hands on the woman's stone chest.
"This is going to hurt," he told the woman with a smile. "A lot. Try not to swallow your tongue."
His eyes flashed red.
"Come out," he whispered. "Dinner time."
He did not pull with his hands. He pulled with his soul.
The air became freezing cold. Shadows burst from Revas's back. This time, they were not butterflies but long, jagged tendrils of darkness shaped like surgical tools.
They plunged into the woman's stone body.
The woman screamed, her voice filled with pure agony.
The stone skin started to crack. Crack. Snap.
Thick, oily black sludge oozed from the cracks in the grey rock. This was the essence of the curse. It hissed and twisted, trying to break free.
Revas' shadows caught the sludge. They tore it from her body, ripping the magic out by the roots.
The stone shattered, falling away in chunks, revealing raw, red, bleeding flesh underneath. It wasn't pretty. It looked like she had been flayed. But it was flesh. It was pink. It was alive.
Revas opened his mouth. The black sludge floated into the air and streamed into his throat.
He swallowed it.
His violet eyes rolled back. His veins turned black for a second, then cleared.
"Spicy," he coughed, wiping his mouth. "Tastes like... wet dog and sulfur."
On the table, the woman stopped screaming. She lay there, shivering, bleeding, but completely free of stone. She lifted her hand—the hand that had been rock seconds ago...and flexed her fingers.
"I..." she wept. "I can feel."
The crowd erupted.
"A miracle!"
"She is healed!"
"The Saintess! The Saintess!"
Revas looked at the rest of the sick people. Hundreds of them.
He cracked his knuckles. He looked at Mirabelle, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The curse was potent; eating it was like drinking pure grain alcohol. He was getting drunk on the corruption.
"Line them up," Revas grinned.
For three hours, the "surgery" continued.
It was a scene of horror. Revas moved from patient to patient, ripping the stone from their bodies, consuming the black slime, leaving a trail of blood and shattered rock in his wake.
The screams were terrible, but the result was undeniable. The Grey Rot was gone.
Mirabelle moved among the healed, wrapping their raw skin with strips torn from her white dress. Soon, she looked more like a butcher than a Saint. Still, people kissed the hem of her bloodstained gown. They worshipped her.
Up on the platform, Fiona stood frozen. The crowd outside the gates was chanting Mirabelle's name. The trap had failed. The "miracle" was gruesome, but it worked.
Finally, the last patient was treated.
Revas stood in the middle of the square, swaying a little. He had taken in enough cursed energy to kill a battalion of mages. His skin glowed with a faint, sickly light.
He looked up at the platform. At Fiona.
He didn't shout. He just leaped.
He jumped the thirty feet up in one leap, landing on the railing of the Royal Platform, right in front of the Princess.
The guards drew their swords, but they were shaking too hard to hold them steady.
Revas crouched on the railing like a gargoyle. He smelled of sickness. He leaned in close to Fiona, his eyes swirling with violet and black.
"Princess," Revas burped. A small puff of black smoke escaped his lips. "Excuse me."
He smiled, and his face was terrifyingly close to hers.
"Thank you for the meal," he whispered. "I was famished. But next time... send something with a little more meat on the bone."
He took the perfumed handkerchief from her hand, wiped a smear of black ichor from his cheek, and tucked it into her bodice.
"Run along now," Revas said softly.
Fiona screamed. She turned and fled, her guards scrambling after her.
Revas watched her go, then hopped down from the railing to rejoin Mirabelle.
He landed hard and stumbled, steadying himself on Mirabelle's shoulder.
"Mistress," he mumbled, leaning his weight on her. "I think I ate too much. I feel... floaty."
Mirabelle wrapped her arm around his waist, supporting him. He was incredibly heavy, and burning hot.
"You did well, Revas," she whispered.
She looked at the cheering crowd, then at the retreating carriage of her sister.
"We won," she said.
Revas rested his forehead on her shoulder, closing his eyes.
"Good," he slurred. "Wake me up for the war."