When Elora stepped through the kitchen door, the scent hit her first—sharp, bitter, and unfamiliar. Not the usual dried rosemary or mugwort Mira used for calming teas. This was acidic. Metallic. Like blood steeped in ash.
She followed the sound of footsteps into the sitting room.
Mira was kneeling beside a young woman laid out on the daybed, skin damp with fever, her eyes flickering beneath their lids like she was trapped in a dream she couldn't escape. A man, older, stood leaning against the doorframe with the same glassy stare and shallow breathing.
Elora's stomach dropped.
"There's more," she whispered.
Mira didn't look up. "Three more arrived while you were at school. All humans. All with identical symptoms."
"They all look very sick," Elora said quietly studying the dark veins on their skins.
Mira finally turned. Her face was calm, but her eyes burned. "Yes, They are."
A long pause. The room ticked with the sound of the hallway clock.
Then, quietly, Mira said, "Go to the southern garden. Collect fresh viremoss and frostroot. We're running low."
Elora nodded, grabbed a basket, and left the house.
The garden was cloaked in silence, broken only by the wind brushing against the leaves. The soil felt colder than usual. Denser. She knelt to gather the viremoss, fingers brushing the soft green fuzz.
That's when she felt it.
A faint pulse.
Not magic. Not movement.
Just... awareness.
Like something was watching her. Beneath the dirt.
She froze. Looked around. Nothing.
The herbs in her hand twitched faintly as if responding to the feeling. But she shook her head. "Not now," she whispered, stuffing them into the basket and hurrying back to the house.
Inside, Mira had already lit the third firepot, brewing something in thick, dark green swirls.
Elora set down the basket and asked, "Why are you brewing so many potions? Can't we just... use healing magic?"
Mira's hand paused mid-stir.
Her voice, when it came, was laced with tension. "Because it won't work."
"But I healed Mara—" Elora clamped her mouth shut too late.
Her stupid mouth.
The spoon clattered into the cauldron.
Mira turned slowly. Her eyes were sharp. "You what?"
Elora stepped back. "I—I didn't mean to. She collapsed. No one was doing anything. I didn't use much, just enough to stabilize her."
Mira stared at her for a moment, then exhaled. "We'll have this conversation later."
Elora swallowed. Hard.
"I clearly told you to stay hidden," Mira added flatly, turning back to the pot.
Elora looked down at her hands. "But she woke up. She was fine."
If Mira reacted this way, just what exactly would she do if she knew a knight was involved? Elora shuddered.
Mira's voice was lower now, calmer, but more dangerous. "Yes. For now. But this ailment… it tricks you. It mimics illnesses. Lets you believe they're cured."
She glanced up. "And then it returns. Threefold. Stronger. Louder. Deadlier."
Elora's stomach twisted. "That means Mara—"
"If we don't solve this," Mira said grimly, "she'll be dead in a week."
They worked all day.
Scanning old books. Comparing ancient symptoms. Testing herbs on neutral energy wells. The fire dimmed. The shadows lengthened. Still, the pieces wouldn't come together.
Until the clock struck midnight.
And Mira froze.
She was standing over an old journal, one Elora hadn't seen before—leather-bound, sealed with a rune she didn't recognize.
"Found it," Mira whispered.
Elora looked up, bleary-eyed. "What is it?"
Mira stepped back. Her face had paled.
"It's called Nexial Rot."
Also known in the old texts as...
The Hound's Curse.
Or Ashbreath.
Elora repeated the name. "Ashbreath?"
Mira nodded. "It's not a disease. Not really. It's a... consciousness. A curse that preys only on humans. Born from the ruins of the first Hawthorne War."
She flipped the page, showing a grotesque drawing—dark veins growing through a human chest like roots, but blackened and dry.
"It laughs at humanity. Toying with them. Feeding on their helplessness. And mocking the supernatural for their inability to stop it."
Elora stared at the text.
That was pure horror.
"The old clans tried to fight it," Mira continued, "but it couldn't be destroyed. Only sealed. That seal must be weakening now."
"It's only targeting humans?" Elora asked.
"For now," Mira said. "But if it spreads... it'll twist anything weak enough to host it."
Elora looked at the patients sleeping in the back room.
Mara.
The others.
What was going on.
_____________________
The candles were burning low, dripping wax into the grooves of the ancient wooden desk. The air in the study had gone from dusty to suffocating. Books were everywhere—stacked, opened, bookmarked with dried sprigs, and scattered parchment. Mira stood over one of them now, her brow creased, muttering to herself in a language Elora half-recognized from old runes.
Elora had lost count of how many pages she'd read. Every description blurred together—dark ailments, rootborne fevers, curses that whispered lies into the lungs. But none matched this exactly. None shared all the signs of Ashbreath.
She closed the tome she was holding and dropped her head to the desk with a groan.
"No luck?" Mira asked without looking up.
"Unless a ritual to purge goat spirits is relevant, no."
"Keep looking."
Elora sat up and sighed. "It's like Ashbreath was written about and then immediately forgotten. Every record we find either contradicts the last or ends in an abrupt stop."
"That's not coincidence," Mira said. "It's fear. No one survived long enough to study it properly."
Elora bit her lip. "Then how do we fix it?"
Before Mira could answer, the front door creaked open, followed by hurried footsteps and a familiar voice calling out, "Elora?"
Elora sat up straight, nearly knocking over the inkpot.
"Jessi?"
Jessi appeared at the study doorway, hands on her hips, looking entirely out of place in the gloom. She wore her usual bold jacket and boots caked with dust.
"There you are! I've been knocking for five minutes. This place is like a graveyard."
Elora rushed to hug her. "I'm so glad you're okay."
"Yeah, well, I might not be for long." Jessi pulled back, her expression unusually serious. "What the hell is going on, Elora? The entire town's losing it."
Mira arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
Jessi went on. "People are panicking. The clinic's overflowing. My neighbor's little girl passed out in the bakery. My mom took her to the hospital and waited for five hours—nothing. No cure. No answers."
Elora exchanged a glance with Mira.
Jessi noticed. "You two know something."
Elora hesitated. "It's… not simple."
"It never is," Jessi muttered, flopping into a nearby chair. "They're saying it's a virus. Some weird flu. But this isn't flu. People aren't just sick—they're sleepwalking into traffic, murmuring nonsense. One guy on Third Street just... forgot how to speak."
Mira closed her book with a heavy thump.
"It's not a virus," she said. "It's older than medicine."
Jessi blinked. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," Mira said darkly, "that what's happening isn't new. It's returning."
Elora sat beside Jessi and took her hand. "We're working on it. I promise."
"I figured you'd be in the middle of this," Jessi said, giving a weak smile. "Where there's weird magic or mystery, not me I would totally lose it, paranormals no no for Jessi, Elora Peters is always center stage."
Elora chuckled nervously. "You know me."
Jessi didn't notice the tension in her smile—or if she did, she let it slide.
Mira stood abruptly. "No more distractions. If we're going to stop this, we need to work faster. I'll brew a second batch of Ashroot tonic. Elora, take Jessi to the guest room and get her something to eat. I need to think."
Elora nodded and led Jessi away.
But in her chest, a cold feeling bloomed.
If Ashbreath truly was what Mira feared... no one in Hawthorne was safe.
And time was already running out