The city was no longer quiet.
By dawn, the once-melodious hum of Ardentis had turned into the sound of boots striking stone and doors being broken open. Soldiers in silver armor flooded every street and alley, their capes snapping in the wind as they swept through the districts with relentless precision.
The order had been clear,
"Find the source of Noctis Draught. Search every home, every shop, every infirmary."
They obeyed without mercy.
In the street of Ardentis, they tore through merchant houses, spilling boxes of spices and gold across marble floors. In the Blue Ring, they upended shelves of scrolls and smashed glass instruments belonging to alchemists who screamed their innocence. Even the sacred temples of the White Spire were not spared; the priests protested, but the guards only bowed and pushed through, their eyes hard with royal command.
And in the Yellow Wards, where fear had already rooted deep, people fled at the sight of the patrols. Mothers hid their children beneath floorboards. Fathers begged and pleaded, their hands trembling as soldiers ransacked their homes.
Everywhere, one word echoed through the smoke and dust—
"Noctis."
By midday, the search reached the Green Quarter.
The air there was calmer, scented with herbs and incense, but it did nothing to ease the tension. The soldiers moved like wolves through the narrow lanes, their metal gauntlets brushing against wooden doors marked with healer sigils.
One by one, the infirmaries were searched.
They found vials, powders, tinctures, dried plants—but no Noctis Draught. No trace of blackened concoctions or forbidden compounds.
Frustration grew like fire among the ranks.
"Next one," the captain barked, voice echoing. "Cassian's Infirmary. The palace mentioned him by name."
Cassian Veyne looked up from his desk when the door burst open.
A gust of cold air swept in, scattering loose papers across the floor. Five guards entered, led by a tall officer with a scar running from his ear to his jaw. His armor bore the insignia of the royal guard—a crimson serpent coiled around a blade.
"Cassian Veyne," the officer said sharply. "By royal decree, we are to search these premises for illicit substances."
Cassian's expression remained unreadable. "Then I'll not stand in your way."
He stepped aside, folding his hands behind his back as they entered.
The guards began tearing through the infirmary.
Shelves of tonics crashed to the floor, herbs were overturned, and the faint perfume of crushed leaves filled the air. Cassian's apprentice flinched at every sound, trying to salvage what she could from the mess.
The officer lifted a vial of pale green liquid, turning it in his hand. "What's this?"
"A remedy for nerve fever," Cassian answered calmly. "Safe enough to drink, if you'd like to test it."
The man scowled and set it down harder than necessary. Another guard lifted the small wooden drawer where Cassian had hidden the red-sealed vial the night before—but it was empty now.
After an hour, the captain sighed in irritation. "Nothing. Not even a hint of the Draught."
Cassian tilted his head. "Would you like me to brew you some tea for the trouble?"
The captain's glare lingered for a heartbeat too long before he turned toward the door. "If you're hiding anything, healer, the Spire will find out."
Cassian only bowed slightly. "Then I'll await their enlightenment."
When they left, silence returned—but it was not peaceful.
The air felt heavier somehow. Even the faint chiming of glass sounded distant.
Cassian stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the guards vanish down the street. Then he turned, picked up a fallen bottle, and murmured softly, "They're getting desperate."
By nightfall, the investigation had failed.
Hundreds of houses searched. Dozens of healers questioned.
Noctis Draught remained a ghost—spoken of, feared, but unseen.
When the soldiers returned to the barracks, their armor was stained with dust and fatigue. The commander of the search, Captain Varic, entered the war hall and dropped to one knee before his superior.
"Lord Commander," he said, voice low. "The search yielded nothing."
The commander—a broad, iron-haired man named Darien Holt—studied him for a long moment. "Nothing at all?"
"Only herbs, ointments, medicines. Nothing close to the Draught."
Darien's expression darkened. He rose, the sound of his armor groaning under his movement. "Then it's time we give the king something better than excuses."
That same night, within the King's Council Chamber, a hush fell over the assembled nobles.
Torches burned low, their light flickering against the marble walls. The king sat forward on his throne, his golden crown glinting faintly beneath the shadows.
"Report," he said.
Commander Holt stepped forward, bowing deeply. "We searched every district, Your Majesty. The substance remains hidden. Either it's well concealed, or someone with access to the palace itself is behind it."
The lords erupted in murmurs.
"Impossible." "Within the palace?" "Are you suggesting treason?"
But the King raised a hand, silencing them all.
"Then we find who is worthy of healing this city," he said slowly, each word deliberate. "If we cannot find the creator, we shall find the cure."
He stood, the hem of his cloak dragging across the floor. "Let all healers of Ardentis be gathered. We will hold a test—one that will reveal both knowledge and deceit."
The Seer of the White Spire smiled faintly. "A purification by wisdom, Your Majesty?"
The King's gaze was sharp as glass. "A purification by survival."
The next morning, bells rang across the city.
Every healer, alchemist, and apothecary was summoned by royal decree to appear at the palace within three days. Word spread faster than the morning wind.
"The King commands all healers to craft an antidote for the corruption within three days' time.
The one who succeeds shall be granted two thousand gold bars—a fortune beyond measure.
Those who fail… shall face the judgment of the Spire."
The city erupted in disbelief.
Two thousand gold bars was enough to buy entire estates. But the punishment—it was death. Cold, simple, unquestionable death.
The decree was read aloud at every district square.
At first, people thought it was a cruel jest. But when the royal guards nailed the sealed parchment to the gates of every infirmary, no one laughed.
In the Green Quarter, healers gathered in frightened clusters.
"I've treated fever, not curses!" one cried.
"This is madness," said another. "No one even knows how the corruption begins."
"They mean to kill us all!"
Fear became tangible—thick as the fog rolling through the streets.
And in the center of it all, Cassian Veyne stood quietly before the notice nailed to his own door. His apprentice trembled beside him, her fingers twisting the hem of her apron.
"Master… they'll execute anyone who fails?" she whispered.
Cassian's eyes traced the royal seal, his face unreadable. "So it seems."
He turned and looked toward the street, where healers argued and wept, their voices filling the air like desperate prayers. The sun hung low, casting everything in a haze of dying gold.
He exhaled softly. "Prepare the satchels," he said. "We'll need to be ready before the others."
The girl blinked. "Ready for what?"
Cassian's gaze drifted to the darkening sky. "For when light itself begins to rot."
That night, Ardentis did not sleep.
In every district, healers worked by candlelight, crushing herbs, boiling extracts, and whispering desperate theories into the dark.
And far above them, in the highest tower of the White Spire, the nobles and priests watched the city burn with ambition and fear,
a world of color waiting to be bled clean.