Four months prior:

"The pain materializes in the mental plane. I discovered a dissonance between mind and body," The priest, Sethion hadn't bothered to learn his name, declared.

The elderly man wore a white wool toga meticulously draped over his right shoulder and tucked under his left arm. Small orange stripes adorned his clothing, from the toga to the band around his head. He was one of those who promised the world and received payment in advance.

Sethion, lying on his opulent bed, restrained his facial muscles with an iron will.

Great, another quack.

"So, you have identified the cause, Flamen?" The aristocrat asked, adding the man's honorific title, who in response nodded sagely.

"Indeed. It's a rare and dangerous affliction. I'm not surprised my predecessors were unable to diagnose it."

How humble.

Sethion relaxed his neck, his gaze wandering to the ceiling. He put on his most pain-stricken voice.

"You truly are wise." The young man paused for the dramatic effect. Sethion's brown eyes met the strangers.

"Do you know how to cure it?"

Sadly, he didn't manage to ignite the waterworks.

With a content smile, the priest sat down next to him. The man even reached for Sethion's hand in compassion, squeezing it softly.

Okay, he gets bonus points for effort.

"I fear I can't gift you the cure, as it prospers within you. Follow the great ones' teachings and you may attain it."

Sethion facial muscles twitched as maintaining control became a Herculean task.

"But how will piety aid my recovery?"

A rough breath left the man's lips.

"Ah, the impatience of youth. In time, you will learn that true strength comes from patience and calm. You will discover that what now seems insurmountable, is but a thread on the tapestry of fate."

Sethion coughed.

Patience and calm??? I'm literally dying.

Unable to keep up the farce, he returned the man's squeeze with as much strength as he could muster.

"Are you perhaps implying that my sickness is imaginary?" Sethion's tone turned rough.

The priest's smile only widened in response.

"Aren't all ailments simply imaginary? In the end, they are all parts of our mortal shell. They exist as mere externalities, distracting from the true path to Elysium. The only thing that truly matters is the soul. We, the gods' children, must focus on the important affairs, and the rest will fall into place."

By Sol. Another idiot. Or at least, he believes me to be one.

Sethion held up a finger to silence the other man.

"So, if I understand you correctly, Flamen." He spit the last word out. "Your solution to curing me of certain death is making me believe that I'm not sick? Have you spent too much time inhaling gases in an oracle's chamber?"

A few seconds of silence reigned. The priest's face remained entrenched deep in thought. Finally, the dull man realized the ruse and a wave of indignation rushed across his face.

"I will not be insulted!" He screeched. Sethion sent him an offended look.

"Your simple presence is an insult to everyone with half his wits! But don't take those words to heart. They are just part of your mortal shell, aren't they? So, you oversized vulture. What is it now?"

Heat rose to the man's face, accompanied by a shade of red Sethion had thought impossible for a head to achieve before this day. With waggling eyebrows and bloated cheeks, the man shouted.

"Blasphemous!"

A smile plastered itself on the patrician's face.

"You may see yourself out now." He lazily gestured to the door. "Though, I must admit your lying skills are superb. Have you ever considered perhaps a career as a soothsayer?"

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The priest shook his head before turning in a violent motion.

"May your passage be without suffering," he uttered, storming out of the room. Sethion's head touched the pillow as he relaxed his body.

Damn, he got me good. I will need to think of a comeback before they get number fifteen.

He let out a deep sigh.

Another failure.

His moment of respite remained brief.

A newcomer entered the room with heavy footsteps. The man's mere presence demanded attention. Lean muscles rolled under his skin. His tall frame, straight back, and schooled expression gave an impression of power. The same light-brown locks as his framed the man’s face.

"Father," Sethion squeaked. Quickly, he threw off the blanket to rise to his feet. One did not lay down in the presence of the family head.

"You may sit," a deep baritone voice left the patriarch's mouth.

Sethion spotted a few deep lines on his father's forehead, which he hadn't seen before.

When was the last time he visited? I don't remember.

"How many priests, doctors, and experts does it make now?"

The young man knew that both of them were aware of the answer. It was a test, a probe to see his response.

"Fourteen over the past year," Sethion answered truthfully.

"And how many lasted over a week?"

That sentence made the young man wince. His father wielded the silence like a knife, unrelenting and refusing to continue until he received an answer.

"Two," Sethion finally muttered.

"Why must you agonize those who seek to aid you, son?"

As if their idiocy is my shortcoming.

Sethion awkwardly tussled with one of his locks before dropping the act due to its inappropriateness.

"That fool did nothing but speak pretty words to give solace. He didn't even try to heal me. I did a favor to our family's time and pocket by chasing him out."

Mercilian Mercor's fog-grey eyes bore into his. Sethion couldn't help himself but swallow a lump of saliva. There was a reason the man was named a fearsome negotiator.

"Have you considered that such was my intention?"

All blood left Sethion's head, coloring his face in a pale white. Black dots danced in his vision, accompanied by a rush of dizziness.

His body sagged backward as he lost his composure.

"You are giving up," he whispered. Mercilian's tone stayed flat, as if he were talking about the weather.

"No more hired visitors," he announced without portraying a hint of emotion.

"No. Please don't. Just one more," Sethion sobbed. A transparent sheen of tears covered his eyes, clouding his vision.

"I won't do it again. I will try…"

His father remained standing, staring down at his son. He furrowed his eyebrows.

"Stop begging. It's unbecoming of a Mercor."

"What?" Sethion tasted salt on his tongue. He had given up on any attempt of decorum.

"But…"

"No. I agree with you, we have wasted too much effort already. Perhaps it was arrogance to believe that we could cure the Rot."

Mercilian shook his head.

"But…"

"Do you believe this to be a simple decision, Sethion? After Cassion, you became my heir. Still, all possible avenues have been exhausted. There is nothing in my power to do."

Sethion hiccuped, unable to control his body.

"What's with the contract? Couldn't it…"

Mercilian pressed his lips into a thin line.

"Hearsay. You would bet the family’s future on a rumor? And then, even finding and surviving a myth in your volatile condition, nothing but a pipe dream."

“An … Animo… could…” The words came out jumbled.

"No, I attempted it. Great healers aren't something you can simply buy and even then, there is no guarantee for success."

The man pulled a dagger from his toga and offered its hilt to his son. His tone turned soft, almost caring.

"Here, the ability to decide your fate and preserve your honor. Sadly, it is all I can gift you, my son."

Sethion didn't move a muscle, showing no intention to take it.

"A healer was too expensive, so you buy me a dagger."

His eyes turned red, and he pulled up snot through his noses

"Did you not listen to a word I said?"

Sethion gritted his teeth.

"Oh, I have understood you quite well, Father," a venomous amount of contentment laced his tone.

"I will leave it here," the patriarch placed the dagger on a shelf before retreating.

A single tear ran down his stoic face after he had turned his back to his second son.

Alone again, Sethion pushed his face against a soft pillow and silently screamed. He shouted until his voice turned hoarse, and then he sat up.

Involuntary, his gaze wandered to the dagger. It lay within arm's reach. How easy it would be to take it? End the suffering once and for all. His chances of survival were negligent, not even worth mentioning. He had spent months in libraries, not finding even a single well-documented case about a person surviving the Rot. His hands became fists, ready to lash out at a target. Any target would do. Nothing presented itself. Sethion sunk into his bed.

"I'm not considering it," he declared, while his eyes remained glued to the blade. With shaking fingers, he took it and felt its weight. Light danced around its edge, promising incredible sharpness. Detailed carvings decorated its hilt, numerous circles in a repeating pattern. Sethion pressed it against the palm of his hand, cutting into the flesh. He didn't notice the pain. It was much less than what he had gotten used to over the last year, a trickle compared to a flood.

Salvation.

Blood dripped from the wound. Entranced, Sethion watched its flow as a small stream winded itself down his arm.

He tightened his grip around the hilt.

Will Father be pleased if I do this? What will he tell Occio?

He had trained with a weapon since he was four years old. Sethion slashed the air. The dagger felt natural in his hands. A fine weapon, he decided. His heart rate spiked. His entire surroundings, except the small blade, turned blurry.

It will save me the unnecessary agony. I have stopped living one and a half years ago.

His scalp tickled, small jittery jolts rushed through his body. Sethion raised the the dagger and pressed the cold metal against his throat. A single slice was all it would take. He took a sharp breath, and his throat pushed against the edge. The hand carrying the blade remained steady. A single twitch would end months of misery. His eyes darted to the ceiling. Wooden beams formed repeating squares decorated by coffers and small shields. An elegant show of craftsmanship Sethiom had long grown tired of.

Will this be the last thing I will ever see?

The young man wedged the dagger from his throat, struggling as if a magnetic force resisted him.

Fuck this.

He jumped out of the bed quicker than he could think. Sethion sprinted to the window. With all his strength, he hurled the blade out of it.

I'm not dead yet.