7: Plaga's Wrath

The air in Lotringen grew heavier as the night descended, thick with the weight of fear and despair. The soldiers marched through the streets with torches ablaze, their swords slick with the blood of the infected. The cries of the dying echoed through the hollow alleyways, mingling with the haunting chants of the priests who followed close behind.

It was a scene of madness—a city tearing itself apart under the guise of salvation. But salvation was not what the Church and the King sought. They sought control, an end to their fear through the annihilation of anything they could not understand.

And now, the tide began to turn.

It started as a low rumble beneath the cobblestones, barely perceptible over the chaos. The soldiers, oblivious, continued their grim work, but the whispers—those insidious whispers that had haunted the city—grew louder. They no longer spoke only in hushed tones; they became a chorus, rising in intensity until they drowned out the sounds of steel and fire.

I stood in the shadows, my body trembling as I felt her presence once more. It was stronger than before, more focused. Plaga was here, not in fleeting whispers or ghostly apparitions, but in full force.

"You dare harm what is mine," her voice boomed, reverberating through the city like the tolling of a great bell.

The torches of the soldiers flickered and died, plunging the streets into darkness. Panic rippled through their ranks as they gripped their weapons tighter, their breaths visible in the sudden chill that descended.

And then she appeared.

She emerged from the shadows as if born from the night itself, her gaunt figure towering over the soldiers. Her tattered black dress flowed around her like liquid smoke, and her hollow, glowing eyes pierced through the darkness. Her presence was overwhelming, a force that pressed down on the chest of every living being in her sight.

"Who are you to pass judgment on those touched by my curse?" she demanded, her voice cold and commanding. "You claim to act in the name of your God, yet your hands are stained with the blood of the innocent."

One of the priests stepped forward, his hands trembling as he held his cross aloft. "Begone, foul spirit!" he cried. "You have no power here. The light of the Lord will banish you!"

Plaga tilted her head, her cracked lips curling into a mocking smile. "The light of your Lord has abandoned this city, priest," she said. "You wield nothing but empty words and broken faith."

With a flick of her wrist, the priest was lifted from the ground, his screams cut short as he was flung against the stone wall with a sickening crack. The soldiers froze, their courage faltering as they realized they were not fighting a plague—they were fighting its mother.

"You sought to destroy what is mine," Plaga said, her voice rising with anger. "You slaughtered the weak and the suffering, those who had no choice but to embrace my gift. You call yourselves saviors, but you are nothing more than butchers."

She raised her hands, and the ground beneath the soldiers' feet began to writhe. Blackened vines, twisted and thorny, erupted from the cobblestones, wrapping around the soldiers' legs and dragging them down. Their screams filled the air as the vines tightened, thorns digging into their flesh.

The afflicted began to emerge from the shadows, their gaunt faces lit with a faint, otherworldly glow. They moved with purpose, their fear replaced by a strange sense of unity. Plaga had claimed them, not as victims, but as her children. And now, they stood by her side.

A soldier broke free from the vines and charged toward her, his sword raised high. Plaga turned her gaze to him, and with a mere glance, his body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

"You cannot kill what is already dead," she said, her voice dripping with contempt.

The remaining soldiers began to retreat, their ranks breaking as fear overtook them. Even the priests, who had chanted their prayers with such confidence, faltered and fled. Only the King’s banner remained upright, its eagle emblem a silent witness to the carnage.

Plaga turned her attention to me then, her glowing eyes locking onto mine. I had stayed in the shadows, a helpless observer to the wrath she unleashed.

"You see now, Gerald," she said, her tone softer but no less powerful. "They will destroy everything in their path, all in the name of a hollow salvation. I will not allow it. These people are mine, and I will protect them as your God has failed to do."

I stepped forward, my heart pounding in my chest. "You protect them by condemning them," I said, my voice trembling. "You turn them into something they are not, something unnatural."

Plaga’s expression softened, and for a moment, I thought I saw sadness in her hollow eyes. "They were already condemned, priest," she said. "Your Church abandoned them, your King slaughtered them. I am the only one who offers them a chance to survive, to become something greater."

I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. "At what cost, Plaga? What kind of existence is this? They lose their humanity, their souls. Is that the salvation you offer?"

Her gaze did not waver. "Humanity is a burden," she said. "It is a cage that binds them to pain and suffering. I free them from that. And if you cannot see the truth in that, then you are as blind as the Church you despise."

The afflicted stood behind her, their glowing eyes watching me silently. They did not speak, but their presence was a testament to her power. They were no longer weak or afraid—they were something else entirely.

Plaga stepped closer, her form towering over me. "The choice is yours, Gerald," she said. "Stand with them, or stand against them. But know this: the Church and the King will not stop. They will destroy this city and everyone in it. And when they do, the blood will be on your hands."

Her words struck me like a blow, and I fell to my knees, overwhelmed by the weight of the decision before me. She turned away, her form dissolving into the shadows once more.

The afflicted followed her, their movements silent and synchronized. They disappeared into the darkness, leaving the streets empty save for the bodies of the soldiers and priests who had dared to defy her.

I remained where I was, kneeling in the middle of the street, my mind racing. Plaga had shown her hand, her power, and her resolve. She would protect what was hers, no matter the cost.

But the question lingered: could I stand by her side, or was I destined to stand alone in the face of the coming storm?