The Best Intentions

The dead could not be left behind. 

Aldric and Lysara stood over the fallen Karnaxians, their bodies sprawled across the dirt and stone, blood soaking into the earth. The battle had been necessary. There had been no choice. But that did not mean they could simply turn their backs and leave them to rot. 

These were not mindless monsters. They were men—warriors who had followed their god with devotion, just as Aldric and Lysara followed their own. They had not fought for corruption. They had fought for duty. 

That alone was reason enough to grant them the burial rites they deserved. 

But it would not be easy. 

Neither of them had the proper tools, and the ground was unyielding. Aldric and Lysara worked in silence, using whatever they could—daggers, rocks, and their own aching hands—to scrape and dig into the stubborn earth. When the ground refused them, they shifted to another method, gathering stones to form cairns over the bodies instead. 

By the time they finished, their hands were raw, their arms sore, and the sky had begun its slow descent toward dusk. 

Aldric stood before the freshly built graves, his breath steadying as he withdrew his holy symbol, gripping it tightly in his palm. 

He had never buried Karnaxians before. But in death, all warriors deserved respect, regardless of their banner. 

He took a step forward and began the prayer, his voice solemn and unwavering. 

"By the strength of your arms, you have lived. By the weight of your oaths, you have fallen. 

Though your cause was not my own, your spirit burned with faith, as all warriors' should. 

May your guardian receive you as a soldier returned from war. 

May your weapons be set aside, your burden lifted. 

May your soul cross the veil and find its place beyond the reach of men. 

In the presence of the gods, we do not stand as enemies, but as equals—bound by duty, freed by death. 

Walk onward, warrior, to the fate that awaits you." 

As the last words left Aldric's lips, the air between them grew still, heavy with the weight of finality. 

The fallen Karnaxians had carried weapons and armour of value—things that could have strengthened their own chances of survival. The greatsword, the warhammer, the greataxe. Tools of war meant for hands stronger than Aldric's, heavier than anything he had ever wielded. 

But they would not take them. 

They were not looters. 

Their fallen foes had earned their arms in service to their god. To strip them of that in death would be a dishonour Aldric could not abide. 

So the weapons were placed upon the cairns, the shields resting atop the stones, leaving the warriors as they had been in life. 

Lysara stood beside Aldric, dusting dirt from her hands, but her gaze lingered on the cairns. Her usual sharp expression was clouded, unreadable. 

Aldric caught the way her fingers curled slightly, the way her weight shifted, as if something was pressing on her that she hadn't put to words yet. 

She exhaled sharply. "I don't understand this." 

Aldric turned to her, brow furrowing. "What part?" 

She gestured toward the graves, her scales flickering faintly. "Why honour them? They wouldn't have done the same for us." 

Aldric sighed, gripping his spear and using it to steady himself. "Maybe not." 

Lysara crossed her arms. "In the Veil, we never had to do this. There was no need. Our enemies were monsters—things twisted by corruption, things that deserved to be erased. They didn't deserve rites." 

Aldric wiped a streak of dirt from his palm, considering her words. "And now?" 

She hesitated. "Now… I don't know." Her voice was quieter, her usual confidence absent. "These weren't monsters. They had faith. Duty. They weren't corrupted." She frowned. "But they still would have killed us. No hesitation." 

Aldric nodded. "That's what war does. It turns people into enemies, even when they don't want to be." 

Lysara shifted, uneasy. "Do you think they deserved this?" 

Aldric looked back at the cairns, then at the weapons they had laid on top of them. He thought of the way the Karnaxians had fought—not mindlessly, not with hatred, just with certainty. 

"They deserved something," he said. "Not because of what they did. But because of who we are." 

Lysara's arms remained crossed, but she wasn't arguing anymore. Just thinking. 

Aldric let the silence settle between them. He didn't need to convince her now. 

"Come on," he said finally. "The Wall won't wait for us." 

Lysara exhaled, one last glance at the graves before falling in step beside him. 

-- 

For days, they had kept to the wilderness, avoiding roads, settlements, and anything that might give them away. The village they had left behind had been kind, but it had also been a reminder—staying too long in one place meant drawing attention.

Now, their supplies were running low again.

Aldric adjusted his pack, feeling the weight of it against his shoulders. It wasn't just food they needed. The Wall was still a week's journey away, and when they arrived, they wouldn't just be walking through a valley or forest—they would be climbing a mountain.

And they weren't prepared for that.

No cold-weather gear. No climbing equipment. No idea what the hell they were doing.

Aldric had never seen the Wall in person, but he had heard enough about it. The northern mountains were brutal, their winds sharp as knives, their slopes treacherous. The Believers of the Stars made their home somewhere among the peaks, but they didn't make it easy for outsiders to reach them.

If they wanted to survive the climb, they needed better provisions. More food. Warmer clothing. Real equipment.

But that meant finding another settlement.

He glanced at Lysara as they walked. She was focused on the path ahead, her steps light, her senses still sharp despite their exhaustion. Normally, she had a way of pulling things from the wild—Mother's gifts, she called them—but even she couldn't conjure warm furs or a week's worth of rations from thin air.

"We need to resupply," Aldric said.

Lysara nodded. "I gathered as much. Any ideas?"

"No hidden villages this time. The only place I know of around here is Frae."

Lysara shot him a look. "A town?"

Aldric nodded. "We won't go unnoticed. Karnaxians are sure to be stationed there."

She didn't argue, but she didn't look thrilled either.

Aldric rubbed his jaw. "We don't have another choice. We either find a way into town and get what we need, or we starve or freeze before we even get to the mountain."

Lysara's gaze flickered toward the distant horizon, toward the looming silhouette of the Wall and its snow cover caps. Then she let out a slow breath. "Fine. But we're not getting caught."

Aldric smirked. "I don't plan on it"

--

The closer they got, the more wrong everything felt.

At first, Aldric thought it was just nerves. That creeping unease of walking toward civilization after so long in the wilderness. He was ready for the sight of Karnaxian banners, for armoured patrols and checkpoints, for the possibility that they might need to sneak in under the cover of darkness.

But as they reached the outskirts of Frae, he realized the truth was stranger than he had expected.

The first sign that something was wrong was the silence.

Frae should have been alive with noise—merchants calling out their wares, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the chatter of townsfolk moving through the streets. Instead, the air was thick and still, the only sound the whisper of the wind through abandoned market stalls.

Aldric slowed his pace, his hand instinctively drifting toward the hilt of his broken sword. Lysara, beside him, inhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring.

The scent hit her first.

"Death," she murmured. "Not fresh, but…" Her silver eyes narrowed. "It's everywhere."

Aldric swallowed hard and kept moving.

Frae had always been larger than a simple village, nestled at the crossroads of several trade routes. It wasn't a true city, but it was well-fortified, with enough skilled artisans and merchants to be self-sustaining. It should have been thriving even under Karnaxian control.

Instead, it reeked of suffering.

They passed a wagon filled with bodies, covered haphazardly with a torn cloth. Too many bodies. Flies buzzed around them, their presence a dull buzz against the eerie quiet.

No soldiers. No Karnaxians. Just emptiness.

Lysara tightened her grip on her staff. "Where is everyone?"

Aldric scanned the buildings, looking for any movement. The wooden shutters on most homes were closed, some nailed shut from the outside. A few doors stood open, but nothing stirred within.

Then he spotted it—a sign, hastily painted in red across the side of a stone well:

"DO NOT ENTER. THE GODS HAVE FORSAKEN US."

Aldric felt a chill crawl down his spine as realization set in. Without hesitation, he gripped his holy symbol, murmuring a quiet prayer under his breath. The warmth of Tellik's blessing spread through him, unseen but present, before extending outward toward Lysara.

Her scales flickered, shifting through shades too quickly to read. She blinked at him, confusion evident in her silver eyes.

"Protection from disease and poison," he said simply.

Lysara studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod. "Smart.

Lysara stepped forward, touching the dried paint. "This isn't Karnaxian work," she muttered. "This was written by the townsfolk."

Aldric exhaled. "If there were Karnaxians here, they're gone now."

They pressed deeper into the town, following the winding streets toward the main square. Then they heard it—the sound of coughing.

Aldric turned sharply toward the noise.

A group of haggard figures huddled near a makeshift camp outside the abandoned church at the town center. Their skin was pale, sweat-drenched. Their eyes sunken. Their movements sluggish. Some lay curled against the walls, their bodies wracked with tremors. Others stared vacantly into the distance, their lips moving soundlessly.

Lysara stiffened beside him. "This isn't starvation. It's…" She hesitated.

Aldric took a step closer. "A plague."

One of the figures—a thin woman with hollow cheeks—looked up at them. The moment she saw them, her eyes widened, but there was no fear, no shock at Lysara's unusual appearance.

There was only weariness.

"You—" she started to speak but broke into a fit of coughing so violent that it doubled her over, her entire frame shaking.

Another figure, a man draped in a tattered cloak, moved toward them, his steps slow and stiff, as if every movement was a battle. He clutched an old prayer talisman, its edges worn smooth from years of desperate hands gripping it.

He didn't react to Lysara either.

There was no strength left for fear.

"You shouldn't be here," the man rasped. "It spreads."

Lysara met Aldric's gaze. She could smell the sickness in them, but it wasn't normal—there was something tainted about it. Not corruption. Not quite but it was close. It was something unnatural.

She knelt beside the woman, pressing her hand lightly against the fevered skin of her forehead. The woman barely reacted, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Lysara closed her eyes, letting divine energy flow through her fingertips, a warm, pulsing glow spreading over the woman's frail body.

The effect was immediate—the woman's pained expression softened, her breathing eased, the tremors in her hands stilling. Around her, the others looked on, hope flickering in their exhausted eyes.

But Lysara's own expression darkened.

She could feel it. The illness wasn't just a natural affliction—it carried a divine weight, something rooted in faith itself. This was no ordinary plague. It was a prayer gone wrong.

She pushed harder, willing the healing to go deeper, to purge whatever was causing this. The divine energy flowed—but then resisted.

The sickness was woven into them, something beyond a simple ailment.

Aldric watched as Lysara drew her hand away, her jaw clenched.

"It's divine," she murmured. "I can dull their pain, but I can't undo it. Not without a significant healing prayer—something far stronger than I can cast alone." Her silver eyes flicked toward the abandoned church, its doors yawning open like a silent accusation.

"Or we find the source."

Aldric turned to the man. "What happened here?"

The man laughed dryly, but it was a bitter, broken sound. "The healer," he muttered. "She said she could stop the war. That she could save us."

Aldric's stomach twisted. "What did she do?"

The woman beside him lifted her head weakly, her breath rattling. "She prayed to Vida," she whispered. "She asked for a cure… and the god answered."

Lysara's eyes darkened. Vida. The Healing Hand. A guardian deity of healers, mercy, and renewal.

Aldric frowned. "Then why are you all—"

"She made it too strong," the man said, voice hollow. "The Karnaxians were the first to fall. They barely lasted a day before their lungs burned to nothing." He gestured weakly around him. "But it didn't stop there."

Lysara froze, realization dawning in her eyes. "She unleashed a plague."

The woman nodded weakly. "It was meant to be selective," she murmured. "To cleanse the land of invaders. To end the war." Her lips trembled. "But the gods… they don't work like that."

Aldric felt the words' impact settle heavily in his chest. A healer had tried to end a war by divine means—and now her miracle was killing everyone.

He exhaled sharply. "Where is she now?"

The man lowered his head, his fingers tightening around his prayer talisman.

"She's still in the church," he said. "Praying."

Aldric turned toward the abandoned building, its doors hanging open, its stained-glass windows cracked.

Lysara gripped her staff. "We need to speak with her."

Aldric nodded, his jaw set.

They had come for supplies.

Now, they might have to stop a god's mistake.

--

The air inside the church was thick with incense, the scent cloying and stale. Faint candlelight flickered against the cracked stone walls, casting shadows that stretched and trembled like dying flames.

At the far end of the chamber, before an aged and worn shrine to Vida, an old woman knelt, hands clasped together so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

She was praying—frantically, desperately—her lips moving soundlessly, her face carved with deep lines of exhaustion.

Aldric and Lysara stepped forward, their boots echoing across the hollow space.

"Excuse me," Aldric called.

The woman flinched, snapping her head up. She turned toward them, her sunken eyes filled with something strange—hope.

Then her gaze fell on Lysara, and her breath hitched.

"A Lightborn…" Her voice was hushed, awed, as if she had been sent an answer from the heavens themselves. She struggled to her feet, her frail form trembling. "Maybe you can help. They say your kind is chosen by the gods."

Lysara's expression didn't shift, but her silver eyes flicked toward Aldric before stepping forward. "We'll do what we can," she said evenly. "But first, tell us what happened."

The old woman—Celta, she introduced herself—gripped the edge of the altar, her fingers trembling as she spoke.

"It was never meant to be this," she whispered.

Aldric frowned. "What do you mean?"

Celta swallowed, eyes darting between them as if afraid of their judgment. "I—I prayed for a way to end the war," she admitted. "Not with death, not with blood. Just a way to stop the fighting."

Lysara's scales rippled with unease. "What did you do?"

Celta let out a shuddering breath. "I prayed to Vida. I asked for a sickness—not to kill, only to make them weak. To sap their strength, to make them too tired to fight."

Aldric's grip on his sword tightened.

"But something went wrong," Celta continued, voice breaking. "At first, it worked just as I prayed for. The Karnaxian foot soldiers grew ill, slowed, unable to march or lift their weapons. But when it spread to their leaders—"

She stopped, shaking her head.

"It changed," she whispered. "It became something else. Something I can't control."

Lysara exhaled sharply. "And now?"

Celta gestured weakly toward the outside. "Now, it takes everyone. It does not stop. It does not fade. I have prayed for guidance, begged for forgiveness, but—"

"The goddess isn't answering," Aldric finished.

Celta nodded, looking hollow. "I don't know if she can."

Aldric turned toward Lysara, whose eyes were still locked onto the altar. He could tell she was thinking, analysing, pulling together what she knew.

Finally, she spoke.

"It's corrupted."

Celta blinked. "What?"

Lysara turned to her fully now, brows furrowed in concern. "This isn't just a prayer turned wrong. I can feel it. The plague—something else has taken hold of it. The same way corruption twists men, it's twisted your miracle."

Celta's hands shook. "No. That—that can't be."

Aldric exhaled, rubbing his temple. This was worse than they thought.

If corruption had taken root in something as intangible as a disease, then they weren't just dealing with a plague.

They were dealing with a living affliction—one born of faith, but now ruled by something else entirely.

Lysara's mind raced as she processed the information. There was no time for hesitation, no room for doubt. This wasn't like battlefield wounds, where you could treat what you saw. The disease itself was alive, twisting and spreading with an unnatural will.

They had to cut it off at the source.

She turned to Aldric, her voice sharp, steady. "We'll need to perform a large-scale healing ritual. But for that, we need the right ingredients."

Aldric nodded. "Spiritually rich ones."

Lysara gestured toward the altar. "Since this plague was born from Vida, the only way to counter it is through her domain. That means medicinal plants, ones already carrying divine properties. Anything blessed by Vida, anything linked to natural purification."

Celta stared at her, as if hanging on every word. "You think it can be undone?"

Lysara's jaw tightened. "It has to be."

But before they could break the plague, they needed to stop the bleeding.

She turned back to Aldric. "First, we gather the survivors."

Aldric immediately understood.

Those who had lasted this long were barely holding on. If they didn't stabilise them now, the ritual wouldn't matter—they wouldn't survive to see it.

Lysara continued, her words coming faster. "We treat them first. I'll heal the ones I can, ease their symptoms. You'll cast protection prayers over them—and over any who haven't been infected yet. We need to stop this from spreading further."

Aldric placed his hand over the mark on his chest, feeling the pulse of Tellik's power beneath his skin. "I can do that."

Lysara nodded, already moving toward the exit. "After that, we purify the dead. If the corruption is lingering in the bodies, then it could still spread. We burn them, or sanctify them through prayer—whatever it takes."

Aldric clenched his jaw but didn't argue. He had already seen what corruption could do to the dead.

Celta clutched at her cloak, desperation and hope warring on her face. "And if all of that works?"

Lysara turned back, her silver eyes burning with determination.

"Then we'll have a chance."