Aros stood in the middle of the training ground, his gaze fixed on the soldiers sparring before him. His hands rested on his hips as he observed their movements with a very critical eye, searching for weaknesses, measuring their strength. It was not the clash of blades or the shouts of men that consumed him, but the unease he felt in the pit of his stomach.
It had been days now since warriors stationed at the gates of Riveria started falling ill, their numbers increasing with every dawn. First, it had been a handful of guards complaining of fever and dizziness, but now it seemed an entire rotation of men had been rendered useless. Aros didn't believe in coincidences. It had something to do with the Ragnar flower but there was no sign of it anywhere.