They called it the Plague of the Undying.

Whispers of its spread began creeping into the libraries in Valmaris, where I spent countless hours buried in ancient tomes and manuscripts, hunched over my studies until my neck ached and my eyes grew misty.

But the stories I found... they spoke of an illness not only carried on the wind but transmitted through flesh and blood—an infection that turned the dead into vicious beings.

I couldn't resist the pull of this mystery. For weeks, I petitioned the scholars and medics of the Council, begging them to let me study it. At last, they agreed, dispatching me to York under the guise of a researcher for the High Council.

I felt confident; after all, I knew diseases as well as anyone, if not better.

So here I am, Evelyn Farraday, eighteen years old, though people call me "professor" already.

It embarrasses me; I don't look the part—my frame is slight, my hair untamed no matter how I try to tie it back. People often seem surprised when they meet me.

York, I had heard, was supposed to be a beautiful place, its walls strong, its people vibrant. But upon my arrival, I felt an ominous heaviness in the air. The streets were quieter than I had imagined, almost lifeless. Vendors sold herbs, meats—anything they could—and glanced over their shoulders with nervous eyes.

Within the stone walls of York Citadel, I was met by the High Medic, Lord Hallen, who greeted me with such urgent intensity that it only added to my unease.

"Scholar Farraday?" His steely gaze showed exhaustion. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. We need every brilliant mind we can gather to understand… this."

"Of course, my lord." I tried to sound calm, though my nerves were frayed.

He led me down a series of dimly lit corridors until we reached a thick iron door. "We keep the afflicted here, away from the public, but close enough to observe." His expression softened slightly, almost a warning. "What you see here may disturb you. Many of our physicians have found it… difficult."

I stepped toward the door, peering through a small window. Inside, a man was chained to the wall, his gaunt form contorted, his skin taut over his bones. His eyes glowed with a ferocious, red light, tracking my movements as I approached.

"How long has he been like this?" I asked in a whisper.

"Seven days since the first symptoms appeared," Lord Hallen replied grimly. "We found him wandering feverishly near the outskirts. Soon, the fever worsened, and he stopped eating, stopped speaking… but then, when we brought him to the church for burial, he rose again, with a hunger—"

His voice faltered as if even he couldn't believe it. "He devoured the nearest bystanders, faster than we could react. We barely managed to contain him; many of our guards lost their lives just to chain him here."

"And his victims?" I asked, a tremor in my voice.

"They rose as well, as he did," Lord Hallen said. "Infected and transformed. We had to sacrifice most of the people within the church to keep this contagion contained."

With a shudder, I understood the gravity of this disease. It was no mere illness; it stole life and the finality of death itself.

I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. "If I may, my lord, I'd like to examine him more closely. To make notes, try a few remedies, perhaps."

Lord Hallen nodded solemnly. "Very well. But take care, Scholar. This disease spares no one—neither the strong nor the wise."

He opened the door, gesturing for me to enter. It slammed shut behind me as I stepped in, my notebook trembling in my hands as I approached the man. The stench of rot filled the air, but I forced myself to breathe shallowly, determined not to let it distract me.

"Sir," I called out, my voice unsteady. "Can you tell me your name?"

He lifted his head, lips parting as if to speak, but only a snarl escaped. His eyes gleamed with a spark of hunger.

"Noted," I whispered, scribbling quickly, my heart pounding. "Signs of cognitive degradation, with brief awareness…"

Suddenly, he lunged, his chains clanging as he stretched toward me, fingers clawing at the ground. I stumbled back, the door behind me swinging open as Lord Hallen pulled me to safety.

"That's enough," he said firmly, guiding me out. "You've seen what you needed to see."

In that moment, the true horror of this plague became clear. This was more than a disease; it was a curse, stripping humanity from its victims and leaving them empty, ravenous.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Over the following days, I returned to the Citadel, each visit more grueling as the cells filled with new victims. I was running out of time and ideas, but the city's hope rested on our efforts.

One evening, worn down from hours spent with the infected, I wandered the streets in a futile search for clarity. Outside a church, a figure in simple white robes caught my eye—a young priest.

I looked up at him then and saw that it was a young man in his mid 20's.

There was a kind softness to his eyes. A small smile played around his mouth.

"Just walking around, breathe some fresh air,"

I said quietly, smoothing a strand of hair back over my ear.

"I just… I needed to clear my head."

He nodded, looking at me with an intensity that made my chest burn.

"I assume you are one of the medics helping those afflicted?"

He nodded toward the satchel slung over my shoulder, its leather worn from days spent carrying notes and herbs.

"I am Bertrand; I am one of the priests of this city. It has not been easy for any of us, least of all for those who dedicate themselves to making sense of this plague.".

I nodded, thanking him for the gesture.

"Evelyn,"

I said, extending my hand.

"And yeah, I'm here about a month already, studying. Though honestly, it's like I hardly scratched anything yet."

"A month?"

he asked, nodding to one side while his eyes grew gentle, full of pity.

"And still, you appear as though you have endured a lifetime load on your back. Come in. We do not have much, but maybe a cup of something warm will take some burden off your mind.".

I hesitated, looked up at the darkening sky, and nodded.

Bertrand took me inside the church, and the air warmed as we walked down rows of pews.

The smell was faint, candle wax and old wood. He opened a small door into a small chamber where a kettle was steaming on a small fire.

As we sat, he filled a worn cup with steaming tea, his movements unruffled and unhurried, as if he spent a lifetime tending to people.

The tea was unexpectedly sweet, its warmth spreading in me as I took the sip.

"You are not from York, are you?"

Bertrand asked, after a moment, peering at me curiously over the rim of his cup.

I shook my head.

"I come from the capital. They sent me to study the disease hoping that. maybe, perhaps we could find a way to somehow, someway, manage to stop it."

But, I swallowed and placed the cup down,

"I don't know if it's even possible, that is. This plague; it does things to people. Alters them into something else.

Bertrand sighed and nodded slowly.

"I have seen it myself,"

he said softly, the ache visible in his eyes.

"They come here, desperate for salvation, thinking prayer alone might save them. And I pray with them, of course, because that's all I know how to do. But… there's a darkness in this sickness that feels beyond any of us.".

I looked down at my hands, thinking about this man in the cell there with dead eyes that were so vacant, yet begging without it.

"If we could only understand it,"

I almost murmured to myself,

"if we could look to see how it propagates, what it's doing to the body. Perhaps we could arrest that process."

"There's more than science to some evils,"

Bertrand said softly.

"You might not believe me, but I think this plague … it's as much a darkness of the soul as it is of the flesh."

"Difference of the soul?"

I frowned, watching him.

"Do you think it's … some kind of curse?"

He didn't answer directly but nodded soberly.

"I've known plagues before, lived through pestilences and diseases that decimated towns. But this is different. It lingers, almost as if it has a will of its own.".

We became silent, and I began thinking about what he said for all its unsettling news. Perhaps, if what Bertrand said was to be believed, the cure was not in some medication but in something more profound and old.

Bertrand shifted some time later, breaking the silence.

"Do you know of the library under the church?"

he asked.

"Few do. It was built many years ago, by monks who dedicated their lives to the study of all things—sciences, histories, mysteries. They kept records of every sickness, every strange occurrence in these lands.".

I can see my heart racing.

"I didn't know there was such a place. Would… would you show it to me?"

Bertrand smiled, rising slowly.

"Come then. But keep close; it's an old place, and many have forgotten its ways.".

We walked down the darkened halls of the church along a narrow spiral staircase lit by flickering sconces till we came to a heavily bound door in iron.

Bertrand produced an old key from his robes and unlocked it, revealing a stone chamber filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, their pages yellowed and delicate.

"There,"

he said softly, nodding to a whole row of shelves.

"The monks wrote about strange illnesses, possessions, curses. Perhaps… perhaps you'll find something that speaks to what we're facing now."

I walked forward, my mind numb, feeling like I had been handed something precious.

The books were thick with dust and leather bindings cracked with age, but I could feel the weight of the knowledge inside.

Bertrand sat there as I pulled out a book with shaking hands.

"Take your time, Evelyn,"

he said softly.

"Answers don't always come easy, but sometimes even the smallest little bit of information can mean everything.".

That night I pored over the texts surrounded by centuries of wisdom and prayer.

Bertrand stayed with me, quietly in the room with me; his faith was something steady as I plunged deeper into the mystery of the plague.

But the more that I read, the further my heart sank.

It was telling of sicknesses that rotted up minds; shadows clung to man; infections went not so much into flesh, but inside the very soul.

Something about this all felt very much a product of their fears and research culminated inside the plague of the Undying, like an evil and darkness that should have come from somewhere and nothing in nature.

As the sun crested, Bertrand touched my shoulder; his face etched lines of worry on it.

"Do you understand it more?"

he asked.

"Yes,"

I breathed, even though I felt no comfort at all.

"Closer. But the closer I get, the more…" Desperate?

Bertrand put a light hand on my shoulder.

"Even if hope's a long way off,"

I stepped from the church into the very first light of dawn.

____