The bell tower tolled thrice at dawn, but for the first time in weeks, it was not accompanied by the chilling wails of the afflicted. Instead, a hush settled across the Royal Citadel, a silence so profound it felt unnatural. The guards at the infirmary who only yesterday had braced themselves for another day of holding down convulsing wolves now stood awkwardly by the doors, staring at one another as if unable to comprehend what they were seeing.
The infected had risen. Not in madness, not in hunger, not in the feral violence that had turned friend against friend but whole. Healed.
Roan entered the chamber, his boots echoing across the stone floor. The scent was different. Gone was the acrid tang of sickness, the metallic bite of blood. Instead, there was only the faint trace of incense the healers had burned in desperation.
