It would never be the same, Mavius knew that with the bone-deep certainty of a man who has watched a beloved city burn. The flesh across his forearm looked like a bruise hammered into him by some enormous fist , not the tiny mole it had been three months ago but a spreading black that inched outward when he blinked.
He started scratching hard on it until blood came out...he realised with a grimace that he was starting to lose feelings in there as he continued even as warm liquid pooled around his nail.
He wanted to tear it free with his teeth, to rip the disease from himself and spit it at the shaman's feet. Instead his fingers found only scar r where the physicians had tried to cut it away. They had hacked at the surface and only revealed how deep it ran.
Was he going to die?Gods he hoped not.
And yet his current status only brought him to that prediction.
The mirror was a thing of mercy he no longer allowed.
