“None survive?” Darian found that hard to believe.

“Well,” the young Justicar shivered. “I’ve heard tell a few make it here and there. But a lot of people are immune, thank Argus.” He nodded at a trio of Justicars walking from door to door down the street. “Like commander Marco. Speaking of him.” He blew into his hands. “Need to get back on patrol before he skins me for being lazy.”

Darian watched the Justicar walk away, snow falling as he wound his way down the street, nodding at the other men making their rounds. Then Darian turned and waited, the village growing silent as sleep claimed the residents.

When Fria returned, Zan bounded down the steps to give Darian’s hand a lick. He pet the wolf as Fria and Durance whispered, but Darian could easily make out each word. They’ve locked them in there to die, if I’m hearing things right. His heart felt heavy, old fears welling up in his chest. To die like this of illness, it makes me sick.

Fria’s eyes glistened, and she absently rubbed at them as she came to a stop.

“How long does she have?” Darian asked.

“Most don’t make it past one week, and she’s going on two,” Durance answered.

Zan nudged Fria’s hip, the girl’s face red and puffy. “Why,” she said. “What did we do to deserve this?”

“Nothing.” Darian pulled Fria into an embrace, his shoulder absorbing her sobs.

“May Argus guide our path,” Durance said, pressing a finger to his forehead.

“Argus?” Fria said, pulling away. “That bastard has never done anything right by my family. Why would he start now?”

Rage flashed across the dwarf’s blocky face, but then he smothered it, snapping to attention as a trio of footfalls came from behind.

“Miss Rostcliff, I presume?”

The man was of average height, but he was broad of shoulder and even though he wore a thick fur coat, Darian could tell he was well muscled. He was around middle-aged, with silver streaking his short beard and swept back dark hair. His eyes drifted to Darian.

“And who are you?”

“New arrival,” Durance said. “Arrived with miss Rostcliff.”

One of the Justicars shifted behind his leader, his face grim. “New arrivals are to be logged.”

“Of course, of course.” Durance rubbed his hands together, but Darian couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or something else.

“I am commander Marco,” the older man said as he bowed, never taking his eyes off Darian. “A pleasure to meet you. I only wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Your eyes,” one of the others said. “Not sick, are you?”

Darian locked eyes with him and activated [Vampiric Charm] a ding in his ears letting him know the skill was successful.

“It’s a family condition,” Darian said. “We’ve had red eyes and pale skin for generations.”

The man smiled and said no more.

“Never heard of such a thing, but there are many oddities this far from Argus’ holy temples,” Marco said, his eyes falling back on Darian. “I expect you to be logged and to follow the rules while you’re here. Durance can fill you in if you have questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Marco and his two Justicars moved up the stairs and toward the longhouse, the hard edges of the building silvered in the moonlight.

“I want to go home,” Fria said after the men were out of sight.

“After we get you and your friend logged.”

Fria walked down the street and Darian followed, Durance soon falling in beside them, Zan trailing behind.

“Sir,” Durance said, Darian ignoring him. “You two must follow me. The rules—”

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“I’ll do what you want after we get Fria home,” Darian announced. “Not before.”

They rounded a corner, walking along the dirt road until they came to a small home shaded by two pine trees. There was a pleasant scent in the air, and Darian noticed wildflowers were blooming beside the building, their purple petals in bright defiance of the cold.

“Mother’s night crowns,” Fria said, weakly smiling.

She squatted before them and Darian noticed the flowers curved upward, the ends pointed like the tops of a king’s crown.

“I must insist.” Durance said, Zan walking around him to sniff the flowers. “At least you.” He pointed at Darian. “We can log Fria later.”

“Go with him, Darian. I’ll be fine.”

He doubted that, but maybe it would be for the best. “Alright.” Darian stepped away, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”

Durance smiled in relief, leading Darian back the way they’d come.

“It won’t take long,” the dwarf assured. “Just need to keep track of who is here.”

“Will we be allowed to leave?” Darian asked, counting the Justicars as he walked, noting their weapons and armor, wondering how hard it would be to kill them all if he needed to.

“Not for some time,” Durance answered. “We are trying to contain the infection. Whole nation is being locked down.”

Darian listened to the men as they passed. Most gossiped about the village, the sour weather, or fear of the plague. But a few referenced the commander and his brutality. One of the men whispered to his fellows that the commander wanted to simply kill the infected, but he needed permission from the church first.

The entire situation turned Darian’s stomach, but as Durance led him to a small building on the south side of the village, Darian realized something.

He could turn people into vampires. And those he turned could possibly be immune from illness and disease, rendering the plague inert. But they would thirst and never be able to live normal lives. But they would maybe get to live. Darian groaned. What should I do?

Durance knocked on the door, a grumpy voice announcing it was unlocked.

“Right on in.” Durance pushed the door open, and Darian entered.

There was a small desk across the short walkway, an angry older man sitting behind it. He looked up from his documents with tired eyes, waving Darian closer with a sigh.

“New?” he said, pulling a book off the shelf beside him. “Just sign your name in the book.” He passed Darian a quill.

The book was small, the cover made of scarred leather. Darian opened it, the pages filled with the names of the villagers. As he laid the quill to the parchment, he decided to write a false name. Victoria had shown him her quest screen. It had his real name, the one from his old life. So he decided to use his dad’s first name and his mother’s maiden one.

The old man took the book and quill, grunting as he stared at Darian’s false name. “Henry Price?”

“That’s me.” Darian smiled.

Durance gave Darian a sideways glance, but then just shook his head, thankfully keeping Darian’s real name a secret.

The old man tossed the book back onto the shelf. “Nice handwriting, Henry.” Then he sighed. “Welcome to the end of the world.”

“Let’s hope not,” Durance said, eyeing Darian. “Well, Henry, here are the rules.” He leaned against the wall. “If me or a Justicar gives you an order, you’d best follow it. If you need to leave the perimeter around the village, you must have one of us accompany you. If anyone starts coughing or bleeding from the nose, report them immediately.” He took a breath. “And if you start coughing or bleeding, report that immediately, too. And unless instructed otherwise or unless you have permission, we’d like you to stay indoors. That would be miss Rostcliff’s house in your case.”

“Seems I’ve walked myself into a prison.” He’d seen around twenty Justicars, but most looked weak. Killing the whole lot of them wouldn’t be too much trouble. And only Durance and the commander posed a true threat on their own. But I will stay here to help Fria.

“Not a prison,” Durance said, the old man behind him rolling his eyes. “This is just what we need to do. You wouldn’t want to get sick, would you?”

Darian shrugged. “Am I free to go?”

Durance huffed. “Yes. Do you remember the way?”

Darian nodded and headed out the door before Durance could say anything else. He heard the dwarf complain about the youths’ lack of respect or understanding, but the old man didn’t reply.

Light flickered behind the shutters as Darian approached Fria’s home. When he reached the door, he gave it a light knock before entering.

“Welcome,” Fria said, tossing logs into the fireplace opposite the door.

The house was one large room with a small walled off section on the right side. There was a gigantic fur rug that stretched along the floor, ending as it reached a small dining area. A big bed sat tucked in the left corner next to what looked like some kind of workstation. It reminded Darian of his mother’s room back home where she would practice her knitting.

“It’s nice,” Darian said.

Fria sat low in a chair, patting Zan. The wolf seemed somber, his amber eyes half closed as he observed the room, his nose twitching.

Darian pulled up a chair and sat across from her. She looked up at him after a moment, her face blank.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Not your fault,” she replied. “But I…I can’t believe it. Why here? Why now?”

Darian settled back. “Fria,” he said, his head resting against the top of the chair. “What if I could cure your mother?”

“And how would you do that?”

Darian leaned forward, his thoughts a storm of questions and doubts. “By turning her into a vampire.”